Bared to the Viscount (The Rites of May Book 1) by Lara Archer

Author:Lara Archer [Archer, Lara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sagitta Press
Published: 2015-06-22T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

John wasn’t surprised when Mary tugged her hand away.

“Are you quite mad?” she hissed in an accusing undertone. “We shouldn’t…we’re supposed to be staying away from one another.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that,” he said, trying to keep his expression reasonably sober. Happiness at being near her—knowing he was now a free man, able to offer for her with an undivided heart—frothed through him, making a smile almost impossible to suppress. “In fact, I think staying away from each other is a terrible idea.”

She frowned. “Nothing has changed since this morning, Lord Parkhurst.”

“Everything has changed,” he said, and his breath hitched as he gazed at her. Lord, she looked pretty tonight—flushed from dancing, with curls shaken loose all about her face. Not quite the half-naked sylph he’d held in his arms in the woods that morning, but still, more of the real Mary than he’d ever seen in public before. “You absolutely must talk with me. I have news to tell you.”

“No. No, I absolutely mustn’t. And I’m—busy. I need to find Thomas.”

“Thomas can wait. I can’t.”

“Oh, stop! Leave me be!” Her eyebrows raised, and her eyes looked bright with a slick of tears. “This is...this is cruel of you.”

“Cruel?”

“To keep coming after me, my lord, when I’ve been quite clear about my wishes.”

My lord. She made those words sound like some awful insult.

“Mary, please,” he said. “You must hear me out. And you can’t run off now—everyone is watching us. If you go tearing off with that look on your face, it’s sure to start a scandal.”

“What look on my face?”

He mimed a quick grimace.

“Oh, for pity’s sake. I look nothing like that. And no one’s paying attention, anyway.” But she stole quick glances out of the corners of her eyes, and the tightening of her expression told him she could see they did indeed have an audience.

A very intrigued audience.

Including Annabel Lawton, whose gaze was speculative and suspicious.

Mary quickly schooled her face to blank calm, as she was so remarkably good at doing. “Of course, Lord Parkhurst,” she said in a louder voice. “I should be glad to dance and discuss the digging of the new well. I’m sure we can solve the problem of the...the sliding shale.”

“Clever girl,” he said, trying not to laugh, and pulled her into the dance.

It was a country dance—fast-paced and rowdy. Some of the dancers formed rings and spun about in giddy groups, but other couples dared to dance in pairs, hands on each other’s waists and shoulders, galloping and whirling about. John wisely chose the latter approach.

“So we can talk,” he said.

And, ah, it was glorious. Mary fit so neatly into his arms. Her small swell of her breasts bumped against his chest now and again, and her skirts brushed his legs. His heart was pounding, and he could see the pulse jump at the base of her throat.

The darkness was a blessing—he could scarcely disguise the intensity in his eyes when he looked at her. This close, though, the

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