The Fortune Hunter Page 0,69

the batters.

"I'm not afraid of a cricket ball, Lord Templemore," she said to him.

"Humor me," he replied. "Beauty such as yours should be preserved for a few years longer. And remember, it's Ver. You do want to be invited back, don't you?"

His shirt clung to him. His dark hair curled more madly than before and clung damply to his bare neck. Amy felt a dizziness that was nothing to do with him, except that he was bringing to life feelings she had thought not for her. "I don't know," she said, then added, "beauty is dangerous."

"You want to be invited back," he said firmly. "And beauty is a weapon. If you can't get rid of it, the least you can do is learn to use it appropriately."

Amy shivered as he walked away. She pushed her hands through her hair and felt that it, too, was damp. It doubtless had the same wildness as his. She looked down. Her bodice was already clinging to her breasts.

She looked toward Harry, who was stationed not far away. As if drawn he walked over to her.

"Do you know how to play?" he asked. His neck was so strong and brown and his chest was smoothly muscled.

"Yes," she said. "I'm quite good, actually, and I have a strong throwing arm."

He grinned, and his eyes were darker than usual. "I know that."

Amy felt herself heat up even more. "I am sorry for that."

"I'm not."

Amy thought it much wiser to turn her attention back to the game, though she was aware that he stayed by her instead of returning to his place. Sir Cedric, she reminded herself desperately. Sir Cedric and all the money they needed for Stonycourt, and horses, and luxuries, and dowries.

The ball came her way. She stopped it, but as she began to throw she realized her fashionable habit had sleeves too tight to allow a good throwing movement. With a muttered, "Drat," she tossed it to Harry and let him hurl it back to the bowler.

"I have a penknife in my pocket," he said. "I could cut your sleeves off. You have lovely arms, as I remember."

"I am lovely everywhere," she said tartly, using her beauty as a weapon, as Lord Templemore had suggested.

It did not drive Harry away. "I don't doubt it," he said. "I hope one day to have the evidence of my own eyes."

Amy stared at him. "You won't."

"Won't I?" he asked gently. "I wonder. I have decided to fight for you, Amethyst. You're everything I want in a wife - mind, body, and soul. And you're not indifferent. I knew it at Coppice Farm, and since then I've seen your eyes travel my body just as mine have traveled yours. You deserve better than an old man in your bed."

Amy turned away and closed her eyes. "Don't."

His voice could not be shut out. "I won't let you do this to yourself. I'm going to woo you, seduce you. If necessary, I'll abduct you."

Amy looked at him again. "You'd hang."

He smiled with hot, ravishing confidence. "Would you say you're sorry?"

The ball came their way again and he fielded it. Amy could no more have handled the ball than she could fly. "You're mad," she said dazedly. "I'm going to marry Sir Cedric."

"No you're not. You're going to marry someone you love. I hope that will be me."

Amy didn't know what to say in the face of such madness.

"If you're afraid of your family," he said gently, "I will protect you, Amy."

At last she found anger of sorts. "Of course I'm not afraid of my family. I love my family. Go away. How many times must I tell you I am perfectly happy with my situation?"

When she glanced around he had gone back to his place, but she felt no reassurance, especially when she had to force her eyes not to feast on him. He wanted her to marry for love, even if it was not himself. That was love speaking. And she wanted him to marry for love, because she loved him.

And they were both condemned to something much, much less.

Chapter 13

A break was called for shade and lemonade. Everyone collapsed beneath the oak in shameless abandon. Lucy Frogmorton lowered her gaze from the horizon only when Rowanford sat beside her.

Amy frowned at this. She hadn't driven him off just to see him fall into Lucy's greedy paws. She looked at Clyta, who was laughing at something Lord Templemore had said to her, something slightly naughty, Amy would guess.