Chapter Eight
God forgive him, he was such a devil. Richard played games with Genevieve, games he knew he’d win. An appeal to her curiosity never failed.
A gentleman would let her go on her way unmolested. A gentleman wouldn’t spy on her in the first place.
As she’d pointed out, he was no gentleman.
Nor was he blind. He counted himself a jaded fellow, accustomed to female beauty. But Genevieve rising from rippling water clad only in moonlight set his heart leaping like a landed trout. She was the most glorious thing he’d ever seen. He couldn’t relinquish this astonishing chance to explore the awareness simmering between them.
Even more astonishing, nobody had ever kissed this incomparable woman. In the name of all that was holy, what ailed the men of Oxfordshire? Did none of them have enough backbone to take her on and turn all that spirit to their service?
Richard Harmsworth was up to the challenge.
He’d have found the double entendre more amusing if he wasn’t aching with need. The memory of her nakedness would haunt him forever. Closing his eyes, he saw every glistening curve, the full breasts, the graceful dip of waist. The long, long legs. Legs that would bend around his back when he plunged into her.
Except that she was a virgin. And a vicar’s daughter. And after he left, she’d have to weather any talk in the village. She wasn’t one of his London lightskirts. He needed to remember that. Difficult when desire thundered through him like a herd of runaway horses.
“Are you quite well, Mr. Evans?” she asked.
He struggled to banish the image of his body thrusting into hers. Intensity would frighten her. He needed to be charming, superficial. Why was it so difficult? He’d spent his life playing a lazy, even-tempered man who cared for little, least of all society’s disdain of his bastardy.
He spoke with unconvincing lightness. “Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?”
“You groaned.” Her tone was dry. “I wondered if perhaps you’d eaten something that disagreed with you.”
Celibacy disagreed with him. Especially when he pursued an alluring, sharp-tongued hussy. The night was so still that he heard the soft pad of her feet as she approached. He fought the urge to seize her. Control, man. Control.
“Genevieve, you are beyond lovely.” Admiration roughened his voice.
The downward flicker of her lashes betrayed a bashfulness that touched him as much as her defiance. “It’s a very old dress.”
That doyen of fashion Sir Richard Harmsworth should scorn the drab garment, but Genevieve’s beauty transformed the worn muslin. He held out a hand, unsurprised to note that it wasn’t steady. A distant warning clanged in his brain that with this woman he risked the detachment that protected him from emotion. But how could he heed caution’s call with her standing so close?
“Come here,” he murmured, taking her hand. Her skin was cool from her swim. Slowly he drew her nearer.
Hesitantly she advanced. Her shyness quieted the rapacious beast inside him, so gentleness came naturally when he slid his hand around her waist. Her innocence seemed precious and fragile. As precious and fragile as the Harmsworth Jewel. His heavily armored heart cramped with poignant longing and his grip turned coaxing, soft. Touch confirmed what sight had hinted. She wore nothing beneath the flimsy muslin.
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