Page 6 of Secrets of a Duke's Heart
“Once this rain lets up, I think we should go into town.” Miss Penfirth interrupted his thoughts.
“Tonight? Why?”
“To inquire at the Cock and Bull.”
“There is no need. I was there. I can tell you everything you need to know,” he said.
“You are a stranger in Cavalier Cove.” She stared out across the soggy field. A gust of wind fluttered her skirts and plastered them to her legs. They were very shapely, her legs. The sprigged linen had turned nearly transparent, the wet fabric clinging to her thighs. Which reminded him that ladies wore nothing beneath the layers of their skirts. Hike them up by the fistful and one could?—
Enough.
She appeared unbothered by his scrutiny. Perhaps she was unaware. That made one of them. He was entirely too aware of his physical interest in her.
Jude shifted uncomfortably. The cold and damp did nothing to diminish the thickening of his cock. He tugged his greatcoat firmly into place, not that there was any chance of her noticing his increasingly dire condition through so many layers.
The cool, wet weather ought to have a dampening effect, he thought sourly.
There he stood, silently willing his willy to cooperate.
Miss Penfirth stared resolutely ahead, uncaring of her drooping bonnet, those bright intelligent eyes trained on the field. If he turned slightly to the right, and she angled her body just so, their lips would meet…
“It’s letting up,” she interrupted his runaway thoughts. The effect should have been a bucket of cold water dousing his arousal. Instead, her melodious voice sent his cock to painfully optimistic new lengths.
He blew out a breath and watched the steam dissipate.
“Well, then, shall we?” Miss Penfirth started out into the field.
“It’s still raining.”
“You’re very observant, Mr. Montague. However, we cannot stand here all evening. There are limits to how much time even I, a spinster, can spend alone with a strange gentleman.”
Was it his imagination or was there a note of brittle bitterness in her tone? She had been cheerfully efficient all afternoon.
Reluctantly, he abandoned his shelter and followed her.
* * *
If Clarissa hadto endure one more agonizing second of Mr. Montague’s sullen intensity, she was going to lose her temper. She was accustomed to dealing with men who delighted in making her uncomfortable. Men who belittled her by pretending to ogle the spinster and then laughed to their friends—they were easy to handle. One smart rejoinder usually set them on their back foot, and turning their tired, stupid jokes on them finished it. Like a boxer’s punch and jab. They always left her alone after that.
But Mr. Montague’s attention had been different. More potent. He made no snide remark for her to counter, and this flustered her. He loomed beside her, taller than most of the men she had seen, and broad-shouldered. If not for his expression, which looked like he’d been forced to eat a lemon, she might have said he was watching her with genuine interest.
But that was only her self-delusion getting in the way of common sense.
“You must be very tired after your ordeal,” she said brightly when he caught up to her.
“I cannot rest until Harriet is found.”
“It seems quite clear she will not be found tonight.”
The glare he leveled at her made her quicken her stride. Mud sucked at her boots with each step.
“I don’t mean to be insensitive. I am a pragmatist. If you are dead set against returning to the Cock and Bull Inn, then there is nothing more to be done tonight but eat our supper and go to bed.”
Warmth rose to her cheeks at the word “bed.” She was not ignorant of the facts of life. There had been a time in her youth when she was keen to experience lovemaking. Now, that memory returned in a rush. Though she knew better, her innards turned fluttery and hot.
What was happening to her?
How could she make it stop?
