Then he felt the tip of her tongue tease his mouth.
Lust slammed through him. Instantly he forgot his purpose and took what she offered, giving in return. He ran his hands down to where her hands were still pressed to his chest. He pulled them away so that nothing was between them but the clothes they wore. Their bodies were molded together, pressed against the tree.
The first kiss ended but a second drove them on, his hands in her hair, his mind filled with the taste and feel of her, his body ready to take all she had to give.
A moan, his or hers, was a call to sanity many, too many kisses later.
He ended that last kiss rudely, without a thought to her comfort. Taking a step back he left a good twelve inches between them.
“Dear God, Beatrice,” he said, breathing hard, “this is not a contest either one of us can win.”
“A contest?” His choice of words seemed to bring her into the moment more effectively than a bucket of cold water. “What does one win? More kisses?”
He could tell by her tone that she knew that was not the right answer.
“Damn it. A broken heart, or worse.”
She stepped to the edge of the giant tree trunk and looked back toward the house.
“No one in sight.” She stepped back, took his arm. She must have felt the same slap of awareness that went straight to his manhood because she dropped hold of him almost immediately. Stepping out from behind the tree, Beatrice walked toward the path to the ha-ha and waited for him.
“You suggested a wager before, um, we were distracted, my lord. What did you have in mind?”
Since that suggestion had been made before his world was tilted on its axis, it took him longer than it should have to recall what she was talking about. He joined her and pretended he had recovered his equanimity as easily as she had, and finally he found his voice. “Yes, I was going to suggest that your sister would arrive alone but that Destry would be close behind. But now I think that is too obvious and that we might as well keep our guineas for some more meaningful wager.”
She glanced at him, eyes full of suspicion, as if wondering if there was a double meaning to his words, which there was not. So she was not as recovered as she pretended. He must remember that she was something of an actress. He tried for the blandest of expressions and waited for her to speak.
She cleared her throat and answered him.
“Yes, just as pointless as my inclination to accept the wager, but only if you agree to wager that Lord Destry will promptly say something he means as a compliment that Cecilia will interpret as an insult.”
He laughed aloud at the equally easy win and suddenly they were friends. Her demeanor changed a little and she was once again more girl than woman and eager for the next entertainment. What did it say about the rake in him that he was sorry it did not involve kisses?
“You know, my lord, chickens are not bred to race.” She danced around to the front of him and walked backward. “I mean, they are more likely to peck the ground for food than they are to run across a finish line.”
“Exactly. That will give us plenty of time to wager and enjoy one another’s company.”
She stopped and gave him a questioning glance.
“Beatrice,” he said with a tired sigh, “if I meant a double entendre you would not doubt it.”
Her expression relaxed into a smile, but instead of enjoying his company she abandoned him to inspect the racecourse. He watched her as he talked with the keeper and listened to the man’s concerns about what this activity would do to the hens’ laying potential.
Jess had assured the keeper he had the countess’s permission to use the hens, and promised to replace any that were so traumatized by the experience that their laying days were over.
The run was about forty feet long, fenced with a wall of fabric down its length on both sides. Beatrice studied it as if it were one of her favorite works of art. Jess wondered what she was really thinking about.
She walked back toward him. Her insouciance was gone, her footsteps ladylike. Cautious, that’s how he would describe her. It was amusing, but not as appealing as her curiosity.
“I wager a guinea that your sister will exclaim over the