Page 54 of The Devil and the Heiress
He grinned. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your fascination with the chap.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Yes, I would have your lustful thoughts reserved for my own purposes.”
She laughed. “Am I not to be allowed to even admire another man? Is this what marriage is to you?”
His fingers twirled in an errant strand of hair the wind picked up and blew over her shoulder. She had left it down and tied back with a simple ribbon. “I suppose you can admire whom you like,” he said, grudgingly. “But I would have your lust to myself.”
Deciding to put him out of his misery, she said, “Then you will be happy to know that Lord Lucifer is none other than you. You and your devilish looks inspired him.”
The simple joy on his face sent her into a fit of laughter as she fell over him. Kissing him, she said, “You aren’t nearly as fearsome as you’d have others believe, you know.”
“Shh... don’t tell anyone.” But he pinched her bottomand would have tumbled her to her back had she not pulled free.
She had other things in mind right now. They had spent the hour before eating wading around the little brook that sloped through the hills beyond the Mitchells’ property. The rise meant they were just out of view from the house, but it would only take them a few minutes’ walk to return. His trouser leg had ridden up a bit to reveal his ankle. Pushing on his shoulder to keep him in place, she sat on her knees beside it.
“The swelling has reduced,” he said, watching her examine him with her eyes.
“Yes, I noticed your limp has improved with our recent bed rest.” She glanced up at him, a flutter of anticipation moving through her at the hooded wickedness in his eyes. She’d had him only that morning. Would this wanting him ever relent? She hoped not.
Gently and with reverence, she traced her fingertips over the scar that ran in a jagged pink line down his ankle. It started at the top of his foot and ran to just under his trousers. Tiny white dots of scar tissue framed it, likely left behind by the thick stitching needed to keep the wound closed. An ache welled within her as she imagined the pain it must have caused him.
“Will you tell me how it happened?”
His initial instinct was to refuse. The pulse of a muscle in his jaw and the shuttering of his gaze said as much. “It is not a pretty story.”
Covering the scar with her hand, she said, “I don’t need pretty stories.”
He stared at where she touched him and then nodded. “My father was active in Newmarket. He had several horses that he raced, and some that he bred to sell. One of his best studs was Bucephalus, so named because he was black with a white star on his brow and near impossible to tame, like Alexander the Great’s fabled animal. I still harboredillusions that I could win my father’s affection, so when he taunted me into riding him, I accepted the challenge. It was a challenge I lost.”
Imagining the sickening scene made her stomach churn with nausea. “What a ghastly thing to do. Dear God, how old were you?”
“Ten years. I was thrown and trampled against the fence. He told a groom to bind my ankle and went inside. A week later infection had set in and a physician was sent for. My father claimed it was because I was too weak, and I believed that for a while.”
“I’m sorry you had such a terrible father.” She wanted to hold the boy he had been and protect him from the monster. “You didn’t deserve that.” Leaning down, she kissed his scar and secretly wiped the tear from her lashes. He wouldn’t appreciate her pity, but her heart hurt for him.
“Violet.” He sat up and reached for her, drawing her into his arms. “It doesn’t matter. I believed him for a time, but I know he was wrong. It’s in the past.”
“You’re right. Now we can focus on our own family.”
He gave her a look of wonder, as if he hadn’t thought that far ahead yet, but he didn’t retreat as she thought he might. Instead, his eyes softened with affection and he kissed her. She climbed onto his lap and savored his mouth on hers. Her breath hitched as desire coiled in her belly, but there was no rush. They had days—no, years—of this ahead. When his mouth touched her neck, a shiver of longing teased along her skin.
“Violet!”
They both looked up. A man crested the hill, standing at the top to look down at them. She squinted and brought her hand up to shade her eyes. “Max,” she whispered, unable to believe he was here. Scrambling off Christian’s lap, she waved and hurried up the hill. “Max!”
Christian came to his feet slower and with considerably less enthusiasm. Max’s long-legged stride made him faster,so he met her near the bottom, pulling her into his arms in a hug as he swung her around.
“Ouch!” She twisted until he loosened his grip, easing the pressure on her ribs, but nothing could wipe the smile from her face at seeing him again. “What are you doing here?” She still couldn’t believe she wasn’t imagining him.
“Are you all right?” His brow furrowed as he took in the stitching and bruising on her head and face. His hand roved down her corset-clad ribs as if assessing her for injuries.
“Yes, I’m much better. There was a carriage accident, but as you can see, only a few scrapes.”
“I know about the accident.” His gaze, full of accusation and a fury she had missed in her earlier pleasure, swung to Christian.
It wasn’t until that moment that Violet realized how the whole thing must look to Max. He must think she had run off with Christian. Well, it actually wasn’t far from the truth, was it? She almost laughed at that, but Max was still serious and becoming angrier by the second.
