It had been bad enough when she’d passed her arms round his waist, securing his arm behind his back. A lurid fantasy of her binding his limbs to a brass bedstead had flashed into his mind. Now, with the entire length of her against the length of him, the fantasy took flight. He could almost feel those supple fingers exploring his helplessly bound body, her long limbs tangling with his. The heat that had inevitably built between them whenever they came together had so far only resulted in conflict. But if they ever channelled that heat into gaining mutual satisfaction…His pulse rate rocketed.
There was no question about his choice of wife any more. All the determined flaunting of her full-bosomed cousins had left him unmoved, but her innocent fumblings, the warmth of her sweet breath on the nape of his neck, had induced erotic images so powerful he could barely keep his body in check.
Finally, thankfully, the sweet torture came to an end, and Harry warned him he was about to bowl.
Exactly how was he supposed to defend his wicket when he could not see the ball coming? His only chance was to wave his racquet wildly before his legs, in the hope that a lucky swipe would keep him safe. A slight jolt up his arm, and the cheers of the children informed him that he had made such a lucky strike. There was a shriek of delighted laughter, quickly followed by the voices of Hester and Harry in unison, shouting, ‘Out!’ When he pushed the blindfold from his eyes with the thumb of his free hand, he saw that the curly-haired moppet had the ball clutched tightly in both her hands.
‘She caught me out?’
‘Indeed she did,’ Hester chortled. Lord Lensborough had looked so determined in his defence of his wicket, so dumbfounded to have been bested by such a tiny child. A girl at that.
‘Remarkable.’ He eyed the grinning child, who was skipping up to him, with something like awe.
‘Oh, she did not catch it in the regular way, sir,’ Harry promptly explained. ‘It rolled straight at her. All she had to do was scoop it up.’
Ah, yes, Hester’s rules ensured that every single child had a chance to enjoy the game equally. Gravely, he surrendered his bat to the moppet, and turned towards Lady Hester with a slow smile. He could have shrugged out of the restraints had he so wished, but the prospect of having her trembling fingers working over the length of his body was too great a temptation to resist.
‘My lady…’
Before he could even ask Hester to untie him, she was walking away, towards the butler, who had just entered the gallery.
‘Your presence is requested in the library. You have visitors,’ Fisher explained.
Lord Lensborough’s mood took an abrupt nosedive. He was not even permitted to enjoy her company when surrounded by the most effective chaperons of all, innocent children. He ripped the scarf from his face, and freed his arm from the bindings about his waist.
‘But I promised the children until eleven,’ Hester protested, watching the shredded neckcloths flutter to the floor.
‘I will stay and supervise until then,’ Lord Lensborough grated. ‘Harry can apprise me of the rules.’
‘You? No, better not. They can return to the nursery. Some of the little ones are due for a drink and a nap.’
‘Why not?’ It would do her no good if he escorted her down to the library. For them to enter together—what a hornet’s nest that would stir up. ‘It is my turn to bowl. You would not deny me that experience? Or rob the children of their amusement? Do you think I am incapable of minding a handful of children for ten minutes?’
‘N…no, of course not.’
Her perplexed frown made him smile in a grim fashion.
‘Capital,’ Harry yelled with glee, scooping up the discarded silk scarf. ‘I can’t wait to see you bowl blindfolded!’
Hester closed the door to the gallery on the amazing sight of the autocrat surrendering his dignity to a grubby twelve-year-old schoolboy, and wondered if Em had been in the right. Perhaps she had misjudged him from the very beginning.
She had been appalled at the clinical tone of the letter his mother had written to her aunt regarding his need to produce an heir. But that was just it. He had not written it. And he really seemed to like children. Perhaps he would be…not an indulgent father—no, she could not imagine that. He would be stern, rearing his offspring to know their duty. She shrugged. That was no bad thing. Julia or Phoebe would be most indulgent mothers; he would provide a balance that would prevent the children from becoming spoiled.
As for his quip about the most interesting things happening where she was—perhaps he had not meant it as an insult. Perhaps it was his roundabout way of trying to mend fences between them, to brush off their unfortunate habit of ending every discussion or encounter they entered with argument. It had already occurred to her that, since they would be related by marriage, she must strive to keep her poor opinion of him well shackled. Perhaps his own code of honour demanded that no matter what his feeling for her might be, he would owe it to his future wife to make some attempt to be on easy terms with all her family.
Her pace slowed as her brain whirled. That might account for it—an outright apology was, after all, too much to expect from a man like him. She snorted in a most unladylike fashion. Apologise? That would be tantamount to admitting he was less than perfect. He was far too arrogant to ever make the kind of apology that would satisfy her. She reached the bottom of the stairs and drifted along the passageway that led to the wing of the house where the library was situated.
She supposed she could hardly expect him to be anything other than exceedingly conceited and self-satisfied when he must have had people fawning over him his entire life. His rank alone made him a target for toadeaters, and his almost obscene wealth meant he only had to snap his fingers, and people fell over themselves to supply whatever he wanted.
So why was it getting so hard to hold to her belief he was wicked through and through?
Because he was demolishing her prejudices one by one, that’s why. He genuinely liked children. He couldn’t be so natural with them if he didn’t.
And she had jumped to the wrong conclusion about the way he dressed. He was not expressing contempt for his humble surroundings. His clothes were cut for freedom of movement because of his active lifestyle. And they were black because he was in mourning.
It was only as she was opening the library door that she realised she had been so distracted by Lord Lensborough that she had completely forgotten to ask Fisher who her visitor was. The butler had stayed in the long gallery so that he could guide his lordship to the library when the game ended.
Her aunt was sitting on one side of the fire, her embroidery frame set up before her, with Julia and Phoebe on a sofa opposite her. In the window embrasure, Mr Farrar lounged with a newspaper spread open upon his lap, and beside him stood Emily Dean.
‘Em.’ Hester made towards her, hands outstretched in welcome. The day before, Em had expressed her wish to come and inspect the marquis at close quarters, so that she would feel better equipped to join Hester in dissecting his failings. They had agreed that she would use the pretext of returning the laundered clothes Hester had left at the vicarage, and, indeed, there was a brown paper parcel in her hand.
Em smiled. ‘I have quite a surprise for you. You will never guess who turned up, quite unexpectedly last night, for a short stay at the vicarage.’
‘Well, then, tell me.’
‘Better yet, turn round, and you will see me for yourself.’
A cold fist seemed to close around Hester’s heart at the sound of the voice she had not heard since she was thirteen.
‘Lionel Snelgrove?’
She whirled round to face him as he stepped out of the shadows to the right of the door, grinning. Bold as brass. That knowing, challenging, lopsided grin.
She drew herself upright, reminding herself