Page 41 of The Trouble with Tigers
Which again begged the question—why?
He’d been thoroughly vexed the afternoon he ordered her to help him undress, intent on interrogating the lad, Kit, only to catch him—her—staring at his naked chest like he—she—wanted to lick cream off of him. The dazed look in Kit’s eyes now took on an entirely different meaning.
He raked a hand through his hair. What about Kitty vexed him?
His gaze slid to her and a reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. Her cheeks were soft with sleep and looked exactly right on a female.
Now, at least, he understood why she’d always looked so wrong to him. Instead of a square jutting jaw, she had delicate bones, instead of a broad mouth, she had plump, rose-colored cupid-bow lips, instead of bold, thick brows and sprouting facial hair, she had wispy black brows and porcelain skin.
She shifted slightly, murmuring something nonsensical, and brought one furled hand to her chin.
The corners of his mouth curved higher still, remembering the day his grandfather goaded him into giving her shooting instructions. She’d pulled the trigger, reckless in her attempt to get the lesson over-with, and had bounded into his chest. He’d commented on Kit’s too heavily padded rear at the time, and she’d glowered at him—just like a woman. Nothing too-lush about that padding, he understood now.
He stifled a chuckle and allowed his eyes to drift over her, taking in the supple curves visible even her staid, high-necked mourning gown. How in hell had she kept those magnificent breasts hidden?
His gaze lingered for several seconds, measured by the steady rise and fall of her chest. Her breasts were perfect. Round and full looking. Exactly the right size for his palms. An image cameto him, unbidden, of Kittysansclothing. Her thick black hair unbound, draping over her shoulders, almost, but not quite hiding alabaster white breasts, with small, pink nipples.
An unholy shot of lust tore through him at the conjured image and without warning the fly of his trousers grew uncomfortably tight, protruding with a noticeable bulge. He tore his eyes off her in disgust. She was practically his ward.Jesus, his palms were sweating under his gloves. He tore at them, desperate to get them off.
Focus on something useful, Thurgood. Like how to rid them all of Lord James. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gritted his teeth.
“Are we nearly there?”
His gaze shot to Kitty. Her green eyes were open to half-mast. How long had she been awake? Long enough to see him ogling her breasts?
He tossed his gloves over his hips. “Over halfway,” he replied in a brusque tone. “Sleep well?”
“Mm,” she answered, noncommittal, and stretched, her breasts straining against her bodice as she arched.
“We’re due for a stop. The horses could use a break, and I need some fresh air.”And a dip in an ice bath. He rapped on the trap and instructed the coachman to stop at the next available inn.
Chapter Ten
They would arrive in Maidstone County soon, and what a relief that would be. Kitty had grown tired of the constant jostling of the carriage, of being cooped-up in the small, enclosed space and, aside from Lady Lillian, she especially disliked the company.
Neither of the short breaks they’d taken had done a thing to improve Zeke’s sourpuss mood, which meant for most of the day’s journey he’d sat across from her looking exactly as he did now. Like a hard-faced curmudgeon.
She set her gaze on the passing landscape and forced herself to focus on something other than him. Even with the sun low in the sky, the grass appeared a bright shade of green. The rolling hills surrounding them sang out in cheerful colors. Red, yellow, pink, and blue wildflowers scattered over the land.
She inhaled deeply, detecting lavender, peony, herbs and flowers of all sorts. The sweet scent on the air told her they’d reached the outskirts of Maidstone County. Home.
She caught the tell-tale scent of coming rain on the wind, as well, and peered up at the sky, Fluffy white clouds crowded out the gray-blue skies of late afternoon, but in the direction ahead, thick black clouds roiled into clustered bands.
“There’s a storm coming. It looks like a nasty one. You said we would be making for Chissington Hall on the dawn?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” she murmured.
Zeke gave an indeterminate grunt she took for dissent.
This time of year, clouds like those produced rainstorms that lasted for hours, sometimes days. Ensuing floods caused ruts that made the roads less than favorable for travel. She didn’t mind. A little rain never killed anyone, and could be very helpful, in fact—especially for someone on the run, hoping to hide her tracks.
When the carriage wheels clattered over the old, familiar wooden bridge at the River Medway, she looked at Zeke, her heart in her throat. “Hastings House isn’t far now.”
The distant rumble of thunder sounded as they turned up Oak Lane. Kitty could hardly breathe as the red-bricked Georgian manse, her familial home, came into view.
It seemed an eternity before the carriage slowed to a stop and the groomsman opened the door.
