was the only child of her widowed schoolteacher father, Jennie informed him conversationally, and thus the recipient of that father’s intensive tutoring—a little fillip she offered to explain her accent-free, educated speech. She had read extensively, although she had never traveled more than fifteen miles from her birthplace, and even though she led a solitary existence she was more than content with her lot in life.
As she let her voice ramble on, her words tumbling out rapidly, she ran her spread fingers through her disheveled blond curls and smoothed her damaged gown with unconsciously provocative strokes of her figure-sculpting hands.
Kit had been without a woman for nearly a month, a lengthy period of abstinence for one of his healthy appetites, and Jennie’s attractions multiplied in direct proportion to the estimated total number of pleasures denied. As a gentle buzzing in his ears turned Jennie’s droning voice to the sweet notes of a siren’s song, Lord Bourne’s better self offered no resistance when his baser self reached out and drew the girl’s slight form into his strong embrace.
“Let me taste your honey, sweetings,” he whispered, his eyes already shut tight as his mouth descended to claim Jennie’s shock-slacked lips. Kit Wilde was ever the sort to strive for excellence in his many pursuits, and he was justly proud of his carefully learned and studiously applied expertise in the art of making love.
It was perhaps a shame that Jennie had no way of comparing Kit’s technique with that of some lesser mortal’s, but as a first kiss it set a standard that only a few foolhardy souls might ever presume to better.
The surprise that temporarily immobilized Jennie enabled Kit to gain a secure hold on her person, a hold that proved invulnerable to any amount of squirming and frantic wriggling on her part once surprise turned into indignation and then, as his plundering mouth touched off a series of intense miniature explosions throughout her body, into very real fear.
Oblivious to it all stood Lord Bourne, his legs slightly apart, one knee thrust boldly between her slender thighs, his hands roving freely through tangled curls and along the long curving sweep of her spine as he employed lips, teeth, and tongue to their best advantage.
Unconsciously holding her breath all the while, Jennie was slightly giddy, her vision hazy and dim around the edges by the time Kit remembered their exposed situation—placed as they were within clear view of dozens of manor windows—and put a reluctant period to an interlude that had proved intensely pleasurable, if somewhat unsettling.
For the first time Jennie looked at Kit, really looked at him, and she realized that the new Lord Bourne was an extremely handsome gentleman of no more than eight and twenty years, a man whose quietly elegant dress displayed to advantage his moderately tall, sleekly muscular body.
As for his face, how she could have overlooked for even an instant those intensely blue eyes or that healthy crop of thick, midnight-dark hair was beyond her comprehension. The lean, clean lines of his face were complemented by the almost too perfect chiseled square jaw that a wide, full-lipped mouth did little to soften. Taken in part, he was an impressive enough specimen; taken as a whole, the man was enough to give pause to the strongest heart.
How had she allowed her anger to blind her to the danger that exuded so visibly from every pore of Lord Bourne’s body? Even worse, what nearsighted imp of insane arrogance had cozened her into believing she could dare to flirt with this obvious man of the world?
Acknowledgment of her own guilt in leading the earl to believe she was forward kept Jennie from either slapping Kit’s face for his impertinence or dissolving into maidenly tears—as any well-brought-up young lady should have (any, that is, who had not yet taken refuge in a swoon).
In the short minute that had passed since the termination of their nearly one-sided embrace, neither of them spoke. They just stood there and stared at one another, each intent on their own chaotic thoughts.
Just as Kit was about to suggest renewing their acquaintance that night in some more secluded spot, visions of a cozy, candlelit supper followed by a mutually satisfying voyage of discovery upon the great barge of a bed in his private chamber, Jennie took him completely unawares by wheeling about, hiking up her tattered skirts, and racing pell-mell into the Home Wood.
“Wait!” Kit called, watching in amazement as her fleeing form was quickly enveloped by the dense growth and concealing shadows. “Jennie, you silly chit. Wait!”
No good would be served by pursuit, as the girl probably knew every tree and concealing rock and could elude him almost without effort. Besides, if he gave chase she might sacrifice prudence for speed, thus putting herself in danger of springing yet another of Leon’s deadly traps.
Ah well, he decided, shrugging his wide shoulders, it wasn’t as if she were about to disappear from his life forever. He had only to question the resourceful Renfrew as to the whereabouts of one blond-haired miss named Jennie and he would be halfway home. Once he located her, it shouldn’t take more than a few soothing words (and perhaps a bauble or two) to coax the fair Jennie into his bed.
Secure in his estimation of both Jennie’s character and the attractive lures his title and fortune must represent to someone of her modest circumstances, Kit returned to the manor, partook of a restorative luncheon, and then repaired to the library, where he penned his acceptance of one Sir Cedric Maitland’s invitation to dine with him the following evening.
CHAPTER TWO
“MISS JANE, iffen ya don’t stop squirmin’ about like some pig caught in a gate I ain’t never gonna get these tangles out, and Miss Bundy, that old cat, she’ll have my head on a platter iffen you be late comin’ down to table tonight. Just the thought of Miss Bundy tearin’ inta me is more than I thinks I can bear.”
As this whining complaint by her maid, Goldie, was reinforced by means of a restraining tug on one of those tangled locks of hair, a tug that brought tears of pain to her eyes, Miss Jane Maitland subsided obligingly onto her chair and allowed her hair to be twisted into a loose knot on the top of her head. “And woe be to anyone who doubts that the meek shall inherit the earth,” Jane confided to her reflection in the mirror. “Forgive me, Goldie, my love,” she said more loudly. “Far be it from me to be the cause of your catching the sharp edge of my dear companion’s tongue.”
“That’s good,” sighed Goldie, putting the last touches to her mistress’s coiffure. “Seein’ as how that woman’s got a tongue would clip a hedge.”
“Not to mention a pair of ears that can pick up the sound of your foolish jabbering at a hundred paces, more’s the pity,” pointed out Miss Ernestine Bundy herself, who had entered the large bedchamber unnoticed.
“Yoicks and away!” Jane chortled as Goldie hastily hiked up her skirts and propelled her ample girth toward the small door to the rear of the chamber, hell-bent on escaping the peal that Miss Bundy was otherwise bound to ring over her poor head.
“Daft woman,” Miss Bundy commented, sailing into the room, her dignity in full sail. “Why any of us put up with that sad excuse for a maid, I find myself saying for what must be the thousandth time, is far beyond my limited comprehension. Really, Jane, sometimes I feel bound to point out to you that your grand gestures of charity do have the lamentable tendency of producing the most disappointing results.”
“Now, Bundy,” scolded Jane, rising from her seat in front of the mirror to smooth down the skirts of her robin’s-egg-blue gown. “What Goldie lacks in talent she more than makes up for in heart.” Twisting about to peer over her shoulder, just making sure her departing self would do credit to her arriving
