The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (11 page)

“And do all the ladies of Lulworth share your opinion?”

“Oh, no, my lord,” Claire answered, adding, “only the truly enlightened among us.”

Marcus laughed. “And Miss Tisdale, is she counted among your ranks?”

Claire looked surprised at the mention of her friend, though whether she was pleased Marcus could not say.

“You could not find a more enlightened individual, Lord Weston. I’m sure she is at this very moment conversing with the fox concerning strategy.”

He made to refute such a notion, but thought better of it.

After all, it would not be out of character for Miss Tisdale to be doing just such a thing. Which he found both odd and utterly adorable.

“She’ll not be joining you today, then?”

“Unfortunately not,” Claire replied. “She’ll attend three events. No more, no less. It is the agreement we struck.”

“Agreement?” Marcus pressed, wondering at the woman’s statement. “Every female of my acquaintance would no more not attend a house party’s entirety than they would refuse the Prince Regent a dance.”

“Have you not discovered the truth yet, my lord?” she asked, adjusting her bonnet to better shade her face from the morning sun.

“What’s that, Lady Bennington?”

“Miss Tisdale is unlike any other woman you’ve ever met.”

She pinned him with her gaze, and even beneath the broad brim of her bonnet, Marcus could see the depth of her words as they played upon her face.

“I do believe you’re quite right, Lady Bennington,” Marcus quietly replied, wondering at the nature of their conversation.

Did she mean to drive him away or pull him in on Miss Tisdale’s behalf?

“Besides, have you danced with the Prince? Hardly worth the effort,” she said, breaking the peculiar spell that had been cast over their exchange.

The horn sounded just then, Pokey’s ears pricking forward with eagerness. “I believe it is time,” Marcus offered in farewell.

“Happy hunting, Lord Weston,” Claire finished, slapping Pokey on the rump as they trotted off.

*    *    *

Pokey was slow for a regally bred Thoroughbred, hence his telling soubriquet. But as compared to most of the fine yet lesser-known stock ridden by Marcus’s fellow hunters, he was a whirlwind who could quite literally run circles around them.

Which he very much wanted to do, despite Marcus’s urgings otherwise. Finally, Marcus gave up and allowed the horse free rein, taking off at a clip that no one save Bennington’s horse could hope to match.

They’d been riding some time with nary a growl from the pack of dogs. Marcus thought it as good a time as any to engage Bennington in conversation. Though he continued to doubt the merit of Carmichael’s concern, he was still obligated to do his duty.

And James Marlowe’s information concerning the London business still niggled at the back of his mind. He pulled gently at the reins, and Pokey abandoned his canter for a trot.

“I apologize, Weston,” Bennington offered as he pulled his bay alongside Pokey. “I don’t know what has become of the fox today.”

Marcus smiled, thinking back on Claire’s comment. “Perhaps Miss Tisdale did warn him of the hunt, after all.”

“Ha!” Bennington laughed out loud, slapping his thigh. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

They slowed to a walk and continued on in companionable silence, the other men still some distance behind. Marcus could not help but like the man, Bennington’s utter lack of concern for Marcus’s heritage seemingly as real as his love for his bonny wife.

Bennington would have invited him to hunt whether he liked Marcus or not, that much could be assumed. But he wouldn’t have asked for his help in planning the day’s events, nor listened to Marcus’s advice in the end.

There were Young Corinthians whom Marcus trusted
with his life, even a few whom he counted as friends. But he’d always assumed they were the exception.

“I had the good fortune to call upon Sir Arthur—and his exquisite brandy—the other day,” Marcus remarked conversationally, hopeful that Bennington would pick up the thread.

“Ah, yes, his brandy. The finest in the county—some say in the entire country.”

Marcus curbed his eagerness to continue and waited the appropriate amount of time before pressing further.

“Do all of Lulworth’s residents so heartily support smuggling, then?”

Bennington nodded. “In a word? Yes. Even his son plays at smuggling, acting as a courier now and again. Nothing dangerous, mind you …”

He stopped, the troubled look on his face confirming that he realized what he’d shared. “The Tisdales, for all their eccentricities, are a fine family, Weston. I would not want my words to lead you to believe otherwise.”

Weston gave the man a reassuring nod. “Of course. You’ve in no way dissuaded me from believing the Tisdales to be anything but what you claim.”

Marcus knew he was good at lying, and Bennington’s look of relief only underscored his talent.

Still, in all likelihood he’d use the man’s words against him, and not without pain.

The sudden cry of the pack as they shot off toward a copse of trees to the north caught both men by surprise, the unexpected appearance of Dixon as he raced past irritating to both.

“We cannot leave Dixon to win,” Bennington announced, spurring his bay into a gallop.

Marcus allowed Pokey his reins, the giant chestnut catching up to Bennington’s in no time. “On that we are united.”

“Cricket?” Sarah’s voice rose in disbelief as she and Claire took seats near the edge of the grassy lawn.

“Come now, I’ve seen you play. Those men could not hold a candle to your skill with a bat.”

Sarah pinned Claire with a testy glare. “Not that I’ll be allowed to play.”

Claire smiled at the bevy of ladies as they took their seats before turning her attention back to Sarah. “The game today has something to do with a school rivalry. Which”—she lowered her voice to a confidential murmur—”if you ask me is complete poppycock. But after yesterday’s failed hunt I could hardly tell my husband no.”

“Why,” Sarah began through gritted teeth, “must their pride be tied to such ridiculous pursuits?”

“Because they are men, my dear. Now, smile and pretend to enjoy yourself. This is one of but three activities that you agreed to, remember?”

“I agreed to archery, not cricket,” Sarah reminded Claire, watching with lukewarm interest as the men took the field.

Sarah searched the crowd of men for Lord Weston, but could not find him.

“Lady Bennington, Miss Tisdale.” The deep male voice was polite, a thread of amusement faintly discernible.

Disoriented, Sarah wondered for a moment where the voice, so rich in tone and seductive in manner, could
have come from. Her gaze quickly cataloged the men on the field for a second time, but failed to find him.

“Lord Weston,” Claire answered politely, looking across and slightly behind Sarah.

Sarah turned slowly, finding a pair of well-muscled thighs clothed in fawn-colored breeches directly in her line of sight. Her gaze continued upward, noting a coat of dark blue superfine and a white linen shirt covering what she could now state with conviction to be a granite-hard chest. And finally, her gaze reached his tanned face and those deep green eyes that turned nearly black when he was aroused.

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Why are you not on the field, my lord?”

Claire coughed and jabbed her in the ribs with an elbow.

Lord Weston settled into the chair next to Sarah, sprawling negligently and allowing a footman to place a stool beneath his feet. “I’m afraid yesterday’s hunt proved too strenuous for my leg.”

Try as she might, Sarah could think of nothing but when the expertly formed limb pressed deliciously against her own. “Were you shot? A duel perhaps?” she blurted out.

Claire’s elbow landed a second blow. Sarah couldn’t suppress a wince but found if she continued to speak, she didn’t have time to worry about what Lord Weston might be thinking.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah offered halfheartedly for Claire’s benefit. “I should not inquire after your—”

Lord Weston laid his hand on the arm of her chair, perilously close to Sarah’s bare arm. “I applaud your curiosity, though I fear the truth would only bore you. So yes, let us say it was a duel of great consequence.”

Sarah turned to give Claire a smug smile, then examined Weston’s words more closely. Curiosity? What sort
of curiosity might he be referring to? Intellectual? Physical?

Bugger
.

The entire situation was distressing indeed. Sarah didn’t know whether to be thrilled at his presence, as her body seemed inclined to be, or terrified.

“Who is winning?” she rattled off, her vision blurring as she attempted to watch the field.

Claire beamed. “Gregory’s team.”

Lord Weston shifted in his chair. “Miss Tisdale, I thought to call upon you and your family tomorrow afternoon. Will you be at home?”

Sarah looked at Claire pleadingly. She wanted to ask just what his intentions were, but knew that, well, she’d make a fool of herself if she did.

It was much more complicated than she’d ever imagined—had she
ever
before considered the problem. One simply could not go about kissing men and expect that all would be just as it had been before.

Or maybe one could. Perhaps if she simply took Lord Weston aside and asked his intentions, all would be made clear.

Or she could rely on her baser instincts and attack the man again.

Bugger
.

She stood abruptly, needing to do anything but sit for one more moment.

“Brava, Sarah!” Bennington yelled from across the field, running toward her with cricket bat in hand.

He thrust the bat at her. “I’d thought to call a footman to bat for Weston, but you’ll do splendidly.”

Sarah eyed Bennington then turned to look at Claire and Lord Weston.

She’d bungled her way into ridiculous situations before, but this was a new low. Of course the proper thing was to refuse, though if she agreed she’d have no choice
but to concentrate on hitting the life out of an innocent ball.

It took only a second to choose. She’d take her chances with the bat. “Tell the boys to move back, Bennington. I’m known for my distance hitting.”

“Sarah,” Claire began, but her voice was soon drowned out by applause.

Lord Weston said nothing, simply clapped, a smile making his features even more rakish.

Whether that smile was a reflection of admiration or horror, Sarah could not say.

Nor did she want to.

She gripped the bat with one hand and marched onto the field, walking to the pitch and taking her place.

Mr. Dixon stood stock-still with the ball in his hand, as though he thought to deny her.

“Come, Mr. Dixon, or are you afraid?” Sarah teased.

The men on the field responded with hoots, while the women tutted with satisfaction.

Mr. Dixon looked angry enough to strike someone, but he reined in his pride and prepared to bowl.

Sarah did not doubt that she could hit the ball, having played cricket with Nigel and his friends more times than she could remember.

But she wanted to hit it hard. And far. And she didn’t want to think why.

Mr. Dixon rolled the ball in his hands once, then twice, then took his run up and lobbed the ball toward Sarah with force.

He attempted to deceive Sarah by adding spin to the ball, typical of a leg bowler such as Mr. Dixon.

Sarah waited for the precise moment then swung, the crack of the bat against the ball deafening.

She didn’t bother to look to where it may have landed, but simply picked up the skirts of her floral print muslin
gown and ran. Ran for her life down the length of the pitch while all around her chaos ensued. Men chased after the ball while women screamed with sheer delight. Bennington, her fellow batsman, shouted with glee as he passed on his way to the opposite end of the pitch.

Sarah rounded the wicket and headed back toward Bennington, skidding to an awkward stop upon reaching the end of the pitch.

“Splendid, Sarah!”

Bennington and the rest of her team gathered around, cheering.

Sarah lost herself for a moment in the pure, unadulterated joy. Laughing, she allowed each man to kiss her hand and may have, in her enthusiasm, even accepted a marriage proposal.

And then she looked across the field to where Lord Weston sat, the same small smile affixed to his face, undecipherable as ever.

She was unique, he had to give the lass that. Marcus hadn’t bothered to entertain thoughts of just what Miss Tisdale might do or say after their brief kiss at Bennington House.

Her surprise at his presence amused him—or, more specifically, pleased him. For once, he had surprised her, rather than the other way around.

And he’d been honest enough. His leg did throb from the prolonged ride yesterday, followed by attending the excellent, if tedious dinner with the rest of the party that evening.

Nothing of interest had come up in the stilted conversations he’d endured during the meal, and God knew Marcus had tried nearly every trick in the book. His reputation as the Errant Earl was getting in the way. Not even when the women left the dining room did talk turn
to anything that might lead Marcus to believe the noblemen present were tied to the Orlov emeralds.