Page 212 of Dukes for Dessert

The vision set his heart to pounding and turned his brain to something close to mush…

Even now, all these years later, his reaction to her was much the same. As jaded as he’d become, he still found himself titillated over the sight of her stockinged legs peeking out from beneath her gown, and the adder in his trousers was equally enthralled.

Her hair was swept up today into an artful arrangement that displayed the back of her neck to particular advantage. God help him. It was all he could do not to bend and nibble at her neck. Gabriel sucked in a breath and recalled to mind his purpose in seeking her out this morn—not to seduce her here on the lawn, though visions of doing just that were creeping into his thoughts.

She continued to pluck petals, blissfully unaware that his eyes were crossing with lust, and he murmured softly, “She loathes me so, loathes me not...”

Her head popped up again, and she said, “What did you say?”

He smiled at her. “You’re plucking petals... it’s something I used to say as a child.”

She stared at him for the longest moment, and then returned her attention to the blossom in her hand. “I spent some of my happiest days in this garden,” she confessed, sounding wistful. But so had he... spent his finest hours right here... with her...

His gaze moved to the pruning shears she’d placed by her knee. She discarded the flower and lifted the frail vine between her fingers, inspecting it, petting it with a gentle finger, thorns and all, as though it were a cherished little pet. And he realized: She was tending this garden in memory of him, and he was moved beyond words.

“Margaret,” he said, standing again.

She peered up at him. “Yes?”

He offered her a hand. “Will you come with me?”

“Where?”

“I have something to show you,” he said, and he reached out to pull her up, willy-nilly, then dragged her after him, giving her no time to protest.

9

It was all Margaret could do not to trip over her own feet in her attempt to keep up with him. Over the morning, she’d come to realize who he was.

Of course, she’d suspected last night, when he’d called her brat while playing that game, and she was now hoping to prompt him into a confession. Only he seemed so intent upon continuing this farce. What did he want from her?

“Just a bit further,” he urged.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said, tormenting her with his evasiveness.

“I must be mad,” Margaret said. It had been years since she’d ventured this far into their parklands—not since she’d been a child—with Gabriel.

He brought her to the crest of a hill, then laid down the pasteboard he carried in his hand.

“Now sit,” he demanded.

“Sit?”

He pointed at the pasteboard. “On it.”

Margaret stared at him in disbelief. “I mean to say, I think you must be mad. Why should I wish to sit on that?”

Gabriel winked at her, grinning. “Only humor me,” he suggested. And then persisted, “Sit down, please?”

Margaret frowned. She could scarce refuse him when he looked at her so... so... longingly. The sun glinted off his hair, and the scent of wildflowers filled her senses.

“Very well,” she relented, if grudgingly, tiring of this ruse. She sat down on the pasteboard, feeling like a silly goose. “Now what?”

He began to laugh.

Margaret peered up at him in sheer exasperation, her hands going to her hips in outrage. “Did you drag me all this way to force me sit upon your piece of cardboard, only to snicker at me like an ungracious oaf?”

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