My One and Only Earl (Forever Yours #12) - Stacy Reid Page 0,28

met her. For weeks, nay for months, he had thought of that afternoon, of Poppy in his lap snuggled in his arms while he held the umbrella over their heads. The kiss…the bloody chaste and insignificant kiss she had pressed to his cheek had been the most persistent specter of his peculiar torment. He would feel the phantom brush of her lips against his jaw when he slept, read a book, tally the ledgers, ride his horse, read the account books and investment reports.

Is it possible Your Lordship missed me?

James raked his fingers through his hair, and with an irritated grunt, stood and padded to the windows. He had left the drapes drawn, and he stared out into the darkness, wondering what to do about the feelings brewing inside for Miss Ashford. James had been without a lover for over four years. His recent state of constant arousal urged him to procure a lover. But everything inside him recoiled at the notion. That itself was a frustration. The person he wanted to kiss and to seduce in his bed was the very one who had cheekily suggested he blushed and missed her.

What was it about her that enticed him to want to bed her without thought of the consequences? “That is why I must bloody stay away from you,” he muttered, thoroughly aggrieved. He must not let the desire linger or give it a chance to develop into a maddening desire that had to be quenched.

Too late.

“What is too late?” he grumbled. “I am the master of my damn self!”

A flash in the dark snagged his attention, and he dipped his head, squinting at the slight figure running toward the eastern section of the lawns.

What the bloody hell?

A bright half-moon splayed in the sky, but it was enough to illuminate the short figure running across the lawns, a stream of wavy black hair floating behind her like a banner. She held in one hand a basket and in the other a lit lantern.

A powerfully unknown sensation rippled over his skin. “What mischief are you doing?”

James was bloody worried. What if this need he wanted to vanquish was already buried deep inside, and he only needed this peek of her running across the lawn toward a gazebo for it to burst forth—peculiar happiness and such yearning he feared it might never be sated. And it was all for Miss Poppy Ashford. A barely pretty and remarkable woman…

Bloody hell. No, she is beyond remarkable and so damn pretty and provoking.

He laughed at the awareness he was arguing with himself. Soon he might be a candidate for bedlam. God, he should be avoiding situations like these with her, but he’ll be damned if he could. James hurriedly dragged on his stockings, trousers, grabbed his banyan and slipped it on, cinching it tightly at his waist. Moving with stealth, he opened his door, padded down the hallway and the staircase. He exited the manor through the front door, careful to ensure he made no noise. The entire household was asleep, save himself and the reckless imp outside on the lawns.

The feel of the cool night air washed over him, and James thought perhaps he should have donned a shirt or at least put on shoes. Even with his stockings on, the grass was prickly under his feet, but he ignored the slight discomfort and strolled in the direction he saw Poppy headed. His hesitation was drowned by a faint giddy anticipation, though he felt he drifted toward his peril lured by his Poppy siren.

He rounded the corner, and there she sat under a large gazebo, such beautiful flowers surrounding it and trellis climbing on the edges. She hummed a song beneath her breath, and the closer he drew to her, he saw what she unpacked from the basket was food.

Within a few feet, James faltered. She wore the coat he had left behind over her white nightgown. Which he could only see, for she had not belted the coat. Her thick, curling hair tumbled down her shoulders to her waist in a shimmering curtain of midnight beauty.

He must have made a sound for her head snapped up, and her eyes widened with delight. That immediate and artless joy in seeing him had his throat drying. James stepped closer.

“An art of reeling in a husband is not to wear your heart and emotions on your sleeves.”

She arched an elegant brow. “This is a decidedly odd and unexpected topic of conversation.”

“It is important not to be