How to Manage a Marquess (3 page)

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Authors: Sally MacKenzie

BOOK: How to Manage a Marquess
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Perhaps not
all
his doing, but he'd certainly led the way.
“I was merely trying to keep us from being discovered by the Misses Boltwood, who I understand are the village gossips.”
Everyone in Loves Bridge gossiped, not that there was normally anything of interest to gossip about, but the Boltwoods did indeed take the art to new heights.
Hmm. There
would
be something to talk about if the Boltwoods found out Cat had been in the trysting bushes with the duke.
Or—good Lord!—if they discovered what
she'd
just been doing in the vegetation with the marquess.
“You won't tell anyone about this, will you?” she asked anxiously.
His brows shot up in apparent shock and then slammed down. “Of course not. What do you take me for? The whole point of that”—he waved at the ground where they'd so recently been sprawled—“was to avoid detection.”
So evading the Boltwood sisters' notice had been the only motivation for Lord Haywood's actions.
For some reason, that infuriated her.
“Was it really necessary to k-kiss me then?” She felt herself flush once more. That had been rather more than a simple kiss.
He looked down his
tonnish
nose at her. “If you'll remember, you were about to scream. That would have been disastrous. The Boltwoods would have discovered us at once.”
Yes, that would have been bad. However . . .
“If
you'll
remember, I was only going to scream because you had your hands on my, er, derriere.” Yet apparently she wasn't allowed to touch
his
precious arse. Typical. Men set the rules and women had to live by them.
Well, not
this
woman.
“I was forced to do so to hold you still, madam. You were about to put your knee on”—he glanced away, clearing his throat—“on a very sensitive part of my person.”
Oh. She flushed. She hadn't realized—
Wait a moment. His male bit hadn't been in any danger during their most recent activities. He'd been on top.
“I wasn't about to scream or do you an injury when you stuck your t-tongue in my mouth.” Her face was going to break out in flames, she was so hot—with embarrassment, of course. “And you can't blame the Boltwood sisters for that, either. They'd already departed.”
* * *
Nate looked at Miss Davenport. Her expression was an interesting mix of mortified and murderous. He felt—
Lust. That's all I feel.
That wasn't completely true, but he shied away from considering the question further.
“I am a man, Miss Davenport—”
“I noticed, Lord Haywood.”
The moment the words left her mouth, her face flushed bright red. She must be thinking, as he was, how exactly his, er,
gender
had made itself known.
His offending body part stirred again, eager to refresh her memory if she'd forgotten any detail.
Stop it. This reaction is inappropriate. Miss Davenport is a well-bred virgin. She's not for you.
His cock didn't agree.
“Men react to women physically, Miss Davenport. It's a natural male instinct, something we can't control.”
Blasted cock.
Her lip curled. “So you're saying you're no better than an animal?”
“No, of course that's not what I'm saying.” Well, perhaps that
was
what he'd said, but it wasn't what he'd meant. “It's merely that men's bodies sometimes react in ways they don't approve of.”
Zeus, he had the sinking feeling he was making this worse.
“Oh? Well I don't
approve
of what just happened either, Lord Haywood. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you and your
natural male instinct
”—she just about spat the words—“and this cursed garden and go home.” She turned, took a few steps—and tripped over the ivy again.
He lunged and caught her before she tumbled to the ground, but the moment she regained her balance, she shook him off.
“Don't
touch
me,” she said, glaring at him.
She was furious—but she also sounded as if she was about to cry.
Oh, blast.
“Don't be concerned, Miss Davenport. I'll not so forget myself again.”
She limited herself to an expressive sniff and walked briskly—or as briskly as one could while minding one's steps—away from him.
And now I've insulted her again.
He had the distinct impression that anything else he said would only make matters worse, so he held his tongue as he followed her toward the garden gate.
What the
hell
was the matter with him? He'd never accosted a gently bred woman in the foliage before. He'd never accosted a woman of any sort anywhere.
He
wasn't subject to Isabelle Dorring's curse.
Oh, God, the curse. Marcus and Miss Hutting in the bushes. He closed his eyes briefly. If Marcus had been doing what
he'd
just been doing . . .
Well, there was nothing he could do about that. He'd have a word with Marcus later, when he got back to the castle. Now he'd try to convince Miss Davenport not to spread the tale.
He glanced at her straight back and hard jaw.
Right. Good luck with that.
His gaze traveled lower, admiring her lovely arse—decorated with leaves and a few patches of dirt. And were those twigs in her hair? Where was her bonnet? He looked around. They were close to the spot where they'd fallen—
Ah, there! He picked the bonnet out of a bush and then knelt to see if he could find any hairpins. “Miss Davenport.”
“What
is
it?”
He looked over his shoulder. She was scowling at him, hands on her hips, but at least she'd stopped.
He waved her bonnet. “If you don't wish to cause comment, you should put this back on.”
She stalked over to him and snatched the headgear from his hands.
“And fix your hair.”
“How am I going to fix my hair without any pins?”
“That's what I'm looking for.” Ah, he was in luck. He found three. He stood and held them out to her. “Will this be enough?”
“It's better than nothing.” She gathered her hair, twisted it up, and shoved the pins in. Then she jerked the bonnet on and tied the ribbon into a slap-dash bow. She turned to leave.
“Er, one more thing.”
She glared over her shoulder at him. “What?”
“You might wish to brush off your skirt. It's acquired some vegetation and a spot or two of dirt.”
She glanced down at her dress. “It looks fine to me.”
“Yes, well, it's the back of the dress that needs attention.”
She twisted and pulled at her skirt, swatting at it from the right and the left, but she wasn't able to reach the problem area.
He watched her for a few minutes and then couldn't restrain himself any longer. It was silly for her to struggle when he could fix the issue in a trice.
“Allow me?”
“Oh, very well.”
He stepped closer and brushed his hand over her skirt, knocking off leaves and twigs and trying valiantly not to think of the firm, nicely rounded bottom beneath the cloth.
Hmm. There was one stubborn spot that resisted his efforts. He leaned closer, plucking off three tenacious twigs, and then rubbed at some dirt. He couldn't get it off.
He licked his fingers, placed his hand against Miss Davenport's stomach to steady her, and attacked the last bit of—
“My l-lord.”
“Just a moment, Miss Davenport. I've almost got it.”
He pressed a bit harder against her stomach . . . well, it was actually lower than her stomach. More the front of her hips, just above—
He froze. That is, his hands froze—one at the juncture of her thighs, the other spread across her arse. His cock was anything but frozen.
He snatched his hands away and laced his fingers in front of his bulging fall.
“I—” He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the lust that was clogging it and making his voice huskier than normal. “I believe that will do.”
She didn't look at him, but nodded and almost ran for the gate.
“Miss Davenport, you really don't need to be afraid—”
That earned him another glare.
“I'm not afraid . . . of anything.”
He opened the gate, and she walked briskly through and around to the front of the Spinster House—bringing the vicarage shrubbery back into view.
Is Marcus still there?
Surely not. And if he was, there was nothing Nate could do about it. He wasn't about to barge into any more bushes. But he
could
have that word with Miss Davenport.
If
she would let him. She was already a distance away, moving determinedly down the walk toward Cupid's Inn. He hurried to catch her.
“You can stop following me, Lord Haywood,” she said over her shoulder, not even glancing at him. “There's no longer any danger the ivy will trip me.”
He lengthened his stride to step up beside her. “Then let me walk with you, Miss Davenport. Here, take my arm.”
She drew back, nostrils flaring. One would think he'd offered her a piece of rotting, maggot-infested meat.
“No, thank you.”
“I only wished to be polite.”
Perhaps his tone had been a bit testy. He tried to soften it with a small bow.
She bared her teeth at him in what, at a distance, might be taken for a smile. “Well, there you go. You've been polite. You are absolved of any sin against the gods of etiquette.” She turned away and continued down the walk.
He continued next to her.
“I don't need your escort, Lord Haywood,” she hissed at him. “This isn't London. I can walk alone without causing comment, so you can be about your business.”
“That's what I'm doing, madam.”
He thought for a moment she would slap him. “I am
not
your business.”
“Thank God for that. I will tell you—” No, it was beneath him to brangle with the woman. “I intend to return to Loves Castle, madam. To do so, I need to retrieve my horse, which I left at the inn.” Next to Marcus's, so in a few moments he'd know for certain if his cousin was still frolicking in the foliage.
“Oh.” She flushed. “I see. I, er, left my gig there as well.”
“Then it would appear we have the same destination.” He offered his arm again.
This time, she took it, albeit grudgingly. “It will look odd if the Misses Boltwood see us together.”
“It will look odder still if we continue in the same direction and you continue to act as if I'm a complete bounder.”
Her only response was an eloquent sniff.
Confound it, he
wasn't
a bounder. What had happened in the Spinster House garden had simply been a series of bizarre accidents.
He slanted a glance at Miss Davenport. Her poor bonnet was rather bedraggled from its journey through the leafage and her dress might still have a bit of mud and a small grass stain or two, but she held herself erect—rather as if she had a poker up her back, actually.
She hadn't been so stiff when they'd been rolling around in the vegetation. No, she'd been soft and warm, and her mouth had—
Stop it!
Thinking about their interlude made a certain part of him far too stiff and got him nowhere. He had more important things to consider, such as how to persuade Miss Davenport to hold her tongue—
No. No tongues.
That is, how to persuade the woman not to spread tales about Marcus and Miss Hutting.
“I did wish to have a word with you, Miss Davenport, before we got distracted by the cat—”
“Poppy. The cat's name is Poppy.”
This was not promising. Miss Davenport wouldn't look at him, and her voice was rather hard. Why the hell did she care what he called the animal?
He took a deep breath. It didn't matter.
“Yes. When
Poppy
distracted me, and then the Misses Boltwood approached—”
“And you dragged me into the garden and attacked me.”
“I did
not
attack you. I may have—due to unusual circumstances—taken some mild liberties—”
That earned him a quick, murderous look.
“
Mild?!
You had your
tongue
in my
mouth
, sirrah!”
Impertinent woman
. “And you had yours in mine.”
Oh, hell, he shouldn't have said that. Miss Davenport's entire face turned bright red. He looked around.
Damnation.
A stout, bespectacled woman was observing them from across the green. He nodded at her. With luck, she was too far away to hear them or to see Miss Davenport's suddenly heightened color.
“You mustn't say such things,” Miss Davenport muttered in a strangled voice.
Here was his opportunity. “Yes, it would be quite uncomfortable if word of your actions got out, wouldn't it?”
She glared at him, but she looked a bit apprehensive as well. “You said you wouldn't tell anyone about”—she glanced back toward the Spinster House—“about what, er, happened.”
“And I won't. Just as I hope you won't say anything about the duke and Miss Hutting disappearing into the vegetation.”
“Oh.” She looked away. “Of course. Why would I say anything about them?”

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