A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,136

Small, firm mounds pressed hard against his chest.

Breasts! Breasts! a distant, but euphoric, part of his mind shrieked.

His breeding organ had already figured that out.

Iain looked down into eyes that had become soft and imploring.

“What is your name?” she asked, her voice husky.

“I—” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Iain, my lady.”

“Would you like to kiss me, Iain?” It was barely a whisper and Iain wondered if he’d heard her correctly. He cocked his head and was about to ask her to repeat herself, when she stood on tiptoes and pressed her lips against his.

Iain had kissed girls before. Just last week he’d done a whole lot more than kiss with one of the housemaids in the stables. But this kiss was different. It was a gentle, tentative offering, rather than a taking. To refuse it was somehow unthinkable. He leaned lower and slid his hands around her waist, pulling her closer. She was so slim his hands almost spanned her body. She made a small noise in her throat and touched the side of his face with caressing fingers, her pliant body melting against his.

“You bloody bastard!”

The girl jumped back and screamed just as Iain’s head exploded. He staggered, his vision clouding with multi-colored spangles and roaring agony. When he reached out to steady himself on the wall, he encountered air. A foot kicked his legs out from under him and he slammed onto his back, his skull cracking against the wood floor.

“Lord Trentham, no!” Lady Elinor’s voice was barely audible above the agonizing pounding filling Iain’s head.

A body—Lord Trentham’s?—dropped onto Iain’s chest with crushing force. Soft but powerful hands circled his neck and squeezed.

“You rutting pig, how dare you touch my betrothed?” The choking eased on his throat just before a fist buffeted the right side of his head. “How dare you put your filthy hands on your betters?” Another blow slammed into his left temple.

“Stop it! Stop this instant, he did nothing wrong. It was me!”

“I’ll deal with you next, you little whore,” the earl said, his tone even harsher than his words as his fists cracked against Iain’s head over and over again. Iain’s mouth filled with blood and he struggled to spit it out before he choked on it. And then a knee jammed between his thighs and he screamed, the world going black.

“You’re going to kill him!”

Iain retched and Trentham scrambled off him, clearly wishing to avoid becoming drenched in blood and vomit. Iain rolled to his side and cupped his hands protectively over his aching groin, his stomach convulsing until there was nothing left to expel.

He wanted to die.

“What the devil is going on here?”

Iain distantly recognized Lord Yarmouth’s voice.

“Make him stop, Papa, he will kill him!”

“I will certainly make him wish he were dead,” Trentham snarled just before a foot made contact with Iain’s side.

“Ooof!” Iain groaned and rolled away, unwilling to take his hands from his groin and risk more gut-churning abuse.

“Trentham, what is going on?” Yarmouth asked again.

“This lout was in the process of mounting your bloody daughter when I caught them.”

“That’s not—” Lady Elinor began.

“Silence!” her father roared.

“Is this the kind of household you run, Yarmouth? Has this happened before? Is she even intact?”

“I assure you, Trentham, this is the first time such a thing has happened. Look at her. Do you think she poses much of a temptation to any man?” The viscount continued without waiting for an answer. “Besides, this is a mere boy. I told Lady Yarmouth he was too young to be fit for the position. We shall discharge him immediately and forget this ever happened.”

“I won’t forget it, Yarmouth. And I won’t marry this lout’s castoffs—not unless my doctor examines her and swears she is intact. And I want him—” a kick glanced off Iain’s shoulder—“put where he belongs.”

“We did nothing wrong, Papa. It was just—”

“Another word from you, Elinor, and you will regret it most severely.” The viscount’s normally soft voice was thick with disgust and rage. A pregnant pause followed his words before he spoke again. “Very well, Trentham.”

“Papa, no. It was only a kiss. He didn’t even want to, I begged him—”

“Enough!” The word was followed by a loud crack and a muffled cry.

“I want him taken in for attempted rape,” Trentham said, his voice suddenly cool and collected.

“Very well,” the viscount said. “Thomas, Gerald, take him. You can put him down in the cellar while one of you fetches the constable.”

Four hands closed around Iain’s arms and began to lift.