Incomparable Lord Meath Novella: A Rebellious Sons prequel (Rebellious Sons .5)(9)
“I know your sort,” she said, repressing her smile and accepting his guidance toward the duke’s gallery of ancestral paintings. “You are and ever will be a risk taker.” As she was not and had never been. “I cannot imagine how you have fared these last years among the sheep.”
He shrugged and stopped to admire a particularly imposing framed gentleman in a ruff. “Farming is always a risk. But I have learned caution in my old age. I now spread my risk among several ventures to keep me entertained. Do you enjoy acting as Belden’s hostess? Do you not wish for livelier company?”
“As you may have noticed,” she said primly, “I am not a lively sort. I hold small gatherings of similarly-minded ladies who do good works. I attend book discussions and musicales. I am far more independent than I ever would be as a wife, and I enjoy my freedom.”
“Willful, are we?” he said in amusement. “No longing for children or a home of your own?”
For years. . . But she’d learned to accept that her caution would not let her take chances with unreliable males. “Since neither are likely, I do not waste time and effort on dreaming of what I cannot have. I find it far more productive and pleasurable to seek what can be accomplished. How about you, my lord? Surely you’ve considered the need for an heir?” She steered the topic to one of more importance.
“I would have to take myself to a city with a large population of sensible women,” he said with a hint of unusual cynicism in his voice. “Or perhaps I have that wrong. Perhaps I should find a large population of foolish women who think a title is all they need in life.”
“Lady Isabell appears to be most sensible to me, sir,” she said with a shade of disdain. “She is also beautiful and wouldn’t require uprooting from her native soil. Perhaps you do not understand how much women prefer their families and the familiar around them.”
“Actually, I hadn’t give it a second’s thought until now,” he said with what sounded like actual seriousness for a change. “But I suspect females come in all sorts, just as men do. Some uproot more easily than others.”
Before she had time to consider the notion, he captured the hand she held on his arm, leaned over, and kissed her. Startled, Honora did not step away as swiftly as she should have. The viscount’s lips were gentle against hers, tasting slightly of the whiskey he’d consumed, plying her with a hungry question her lonely soul almost responded to.
She was actually kissing him back! And enjoying it—enjoying it so much that she terrified herself.
Shocked, heart beating too quickly, she recovered enough sense to push against his chest and step away. She knew better than to walk empty galleries with a gentleman! She had simply thought herself too far on the shelf for anyone to take advantage.
“That was unkind of you,” she murmured before fleeing.
Chapter 3
“You do not give up easily, Meath,” the marquess of Belden grumbled the next morning when Evan showed up at the manor’s enormous breakfast table.
“I gave up gambling,” Evan said cheerfully, scanning the guests but not finding Miss Hoyt or Bell.
Last night’s kiss had exploded all the gray matter in his head and turned his skull upside-down. He liked kissing and had kissed countless ladies over the years. None had ever made his breath catch in his lungs and his knees melt.
Why had he never kissed the enchanting Miss Hoyt before? He’d always thought of her laughter with fondness, but. . . he’d spent a restless night dreaming of rounded curves and heated kisses. He could barely focus on his purpose this morning. He needed to find Miss Hoyt and try kissing her some more. Her tart tongue had either been wonderfully sweet, or rural isolation had rotted his brain.
“Giving up bad habits is a sign of good sense, my lord,” one of the ladies at the table said, patting the chair beside her. “Have a seat, sir, and let us discuss bad habits.”
Ah, he remembered the lady from the old days. Evan cynically sought her husband, but as usual, that gentleman wasn’t about. He bowed but remained standing. If all he wanted was release, he could have that anywhere. What he wanted. . . was probably beyond his limited reach.
“I thank you for the offer, my lady, but I have merely come to inquire into the well-being of my injured neighbor. I have word of how her horse fares.” He watched the marquess and waited expectantly.
Wiping his mouth, Belden shoved back from the table. If Evan did not mistake, the marquess did so with unusual eagerness. He had also taken extra care with his appearance. His silvered-brown hair had been trimmed and pomaded, his whiskers shaved close, and he wore a rather dashing waistcoat of silver and gold beneath his tailored bottle-green coat. Belden looked every inch the distinguished statesman that he was—instead of the irritable grump he’d displayed yesterday. Evan kept his triumph to himself.
Miss Hoyt would likely slap him into tomorrow for what Evan had planned, but as the perceptive marquess had surmised, Evan did not give up—not on his plan nor on his intent to kiss Miss Hoyt again. The lady had enjoyed his kiss, until her formidable intellect and stubborn nature intruded.
He simply needed to comprehend why she thought his kiss unkind.
He followed Belden into the hall where they met Harrow just coming down. The fat tosspot looked even more dissipated than he had the day before, but he still recognized Evan.