can only bat with your left hand,’ Harry decreed. ‘The other will have to be tied behind your back.’ There was a general murmur of agreement.
‘Not much of a handicap to a sportsman like his lordship, I shouldn’t have thought,’ Lady Hester objected. ‘There should be more than that.’
So…she knew him for a sportsman. Not so indifferent as she would like to have everyone believe.
‘How about blindfolding him?’ the freckle-faced boy suggested.
‘Capital idea, George,’ Harry agreed. Before he had time to react one way or the other, the children were urging him to the coal-scuttle wicket, holding up a variety of scarves and neckcloths with which to bind him.
‘Can I not just keep my right hand in my pocket?’ he laughingly protested.
But the children were insistent, and it was amidst much hilarity that Hester took hold of his wrist and pushed it behind his back.
His arm was heavy for her to manoeuvre into position, though he was making no attempt to resist. It was muscle, she knew, not fat, that made his upper arm so bulky beneath his coat sleeve. He was an all-round sportsman. Harry Moulton had told Henrietta that, besides breeding and training racehorses, Lord Lensborough boxed regularly at Gentleman Jackson’s, and fenced in an exclusive academy off St James’s Street. He was in superb fighting condition. It felt strange to be moving his arm wheresoever she pleased, when he could have swatted her off like a pesky fly if he so wished.
She had to reach right round his waist, lifting his coat tails to secure the bindings in place. She wondered that she dare take such liberties with his person. By the time she reached up on tiptoe to fasten a silk scarf about his face, her fingers were trembling so much she could scarce get the knot tied. Handling his bulky physique like this made her excruciatingly aware of his leashed strength. This must be what it felt like to take a tiger by the tail.
Her breath was warm on the back of his neck. Her fingers were trembling. The silk kept slipping down his face as she fumbled with the knot, and she had to reach around repeatedly to hold it in place over his eyes. When she did so, the whole length of her body was pressed up against his back. Did she know what she was doing to him? Dear God, he hoped not.
It had been bad enough when she’d passed her arms round his waist, securing his arm behind his back. A lurid fantasy of her binding his limbs to a brass bedstead had flashed into his mind. Now, with the entire length of her against the length of him, the fantasy took flight. He could almost feel those supple fingers exploring his helplessly bound body, her long limbs tangling with his. The heat that had inevitably built between them whenever they came together had so far only resulted in conflict. But if they ever channelled that heat into gaining mutual satisfaction…His pulse rate rocketed.
There was no question about his choice of wife any more. All the determined flaunting of her full-bosomed cousins had left him unmoved, but her innocent fumblings, the warmth of her sweet breath on the nape of his neck, had induced erotic images so powerful he could barely keep his body in check.
Finally, thankfully, the sweet torture came to an end, and Harry warned him he was about to bowl.
Exactly how was he supposed to defend his wicket when he could not see the ball coming? His only chance was to wave his racquet wildly before his legs, in the hope that a lucky swipe would keep him safe. A slight jolt up his arm, and the cheers of the children informed him that he had made such a lucky strike. There was a shriek of delighted laughter, quickly followed by the voices of Hester and Harry in unison, shouting, ‘Out!’ When he pushed the blindfold from his eyes with the thumb of his free hand, he saw that the curly-haired moppet had the ball clutched tightly in both her hands.
‘She caught me out?’
‘Indeed she did,’ Hester chortled. Lord Lensborough had looked so determined in his defence of his wicket, so dumbfounded to have been bested by such a tiny child. A girl at that.
‘Remarkable.’ He eyed the grinning child, who was skipping up to him, with something like awe.
‘Oh, she did not catch it in the regular way, sir,’ Harry promptly explained. ‘It rolled straight at her. All she had to do was scoop it up.’
Ah, yes, Hester’s rules ensured that every single child had a chance to enjoy the game equally. Gravely, he surrendered his bat to the moppet, and turned towards Lady Hester with a slow smile. He could have shrugged out of the restraints had he so wished, but the prospect of having her trembling fingers working over the length of his body was too great a temptation to resist.
‘My lady…’
Before he could even ask Hester to untie him, she was walking away, towards the butler, who had just entered the gallery.
‘Your presence is requested in the library. You have visitors,’ Fisher explained.
Lord Lensborough’s mood took an abrupt nosedive. He was not even permitted to enjoy her company when surrounded by the most effective chaperons of all, innocent children. He ripped the scarf from his face, and freed his arm from the bindings about his waist.
‘But I promised the children until eleven,’ Hester protested, watching the shredded neckcloths flutter to the floor.
‘I will stay and supervise until then,’ Lord Lensborough grated. ‘Harry can apprise me of the rules.’
‘You? No, better not. They can return to the nursery. Some of the little ones are due for a drink and a nap.’
‘Why not?’ It would do her no good if he escorted her down to the library. For them to enter together—what a hornet’s nest that would stir up. ‘It is my turn to bowl. You would not deny me that experience? Or rob the children of their amusement? Do you think I am incapable of minding a handful of children for ten minutes?’
‘N…no, of course not.’
Her perplexed frown made him smile in a grim fashion.
‘Capital,’ Harry yelled with glee, scooping up the discarded silk scarf. ‘I can’t wait to see you bowl blindfolded!’
Hester closed the door to the gallery on the amazing sight of the autocrat surrendering his dignity to a grubby twelve-year-old schoolboy, and wondered if Em had been in the right. Perhaps she had misjudged him from the very beginning.
She had been appalled at the clinical tone of the letter his mother had written to her aunt regarding his need to produce an heir. But that was just it. He had not written it. And he really seemed to like children. Perhaps he would be…not an indulgent father—no, she could not imagine that. He would be stern, rearing his offspring to know their duty. She shrugged. That was no bad thing. Julia or Phoebe would be most indulgent mothers; he would provide a balance that would prevent the children from becoming spoiled.
As for his quip about the most interesting things happening where she was—perhaps he had not meant it as an insult. Perhaps it was his roundabout way of trying to mend fences between them, to brush off their unfortunate habit of ending every discussion or encounter they entered with argument. It had already occurred to her that, since they would be related by marriage, she must strive to keep her poor opinion of him well shackled. Perhaps his own code of honour demanded that no matter what his feeling for her might be, he would owe it to his future wife to make some attempt to be on easy terms with all her family.
Her pace
