Henry had already guessed as much. She didn’t seem the sort to go horseback riding or skip through the fields, gathering berries. He pictured her in a dark library, perhaps, presiding over a tray of tea and biscuits while she scratched away at her correspondence. Maybe only in her chemise, licking gently at the tip of her pen as she wrote.
Jesus.
He stared at the curve of her ear. A tendril of her hair had escaped from one tight braid and now lay against the delicate arch, making his hand twitch with the need to touch her. Henry wanted to do things to Miss Stitch with his fingers. His tongue. His mouth. He imagined she tasted like a tart apple.
His trousers were becoming unbelievably tight.
Lady Trent floated about the terrace, directing the guests to one of several tables, their place settings and cut crystal shining in the light of the candles. The front table was instantly filled with Lord Trent, South, Mrs. Culpepper, Montieth, and a young lady who appeared to be dazed at her good fortune of sitting with such esteemed company. Henry recognized her as Miss Cradditch, an annoying young woman on the hunt for a titled husband and the niece of Lady Bainbridge, who was also in attendance.
He wanted to laugh out loud at Montieth’s misfortune. At least Miss Stitch was entertaining.
As the other guests found their places, Henry counted the ones being directed to their seats by Lady Trent, who had not once glanced in the direction of him and Miss Stitch. One table, smaller than the rest, stuck out at the edge of the terrace and contained two place settings.
Henry gave a sigh of resignation.
Lady Trent, it appeared, had not forgiven him for the numerous incidents that had occurred at her ball. Henry wondered what Miss Stitch had done to their hostess, for surely the other place setting was for her.
Pointedly dropping her fingers from his arm, Miss Stitch, smug smile in place on her luscious lips, went toward the head table, relieved to be free of his escort.
Henry could have told her not to waste her time, but he didn’t. Best Miss Stitch find out on her own. He waited patiently for her to realize her place would not be at the head table but with him.
Lady Trent, catching sight of Miss Stitch, came around the main table, took Miss Stitch’s hand, and spoke to her, an apologetic smile fixed firmly on her lips. She turned Miss Stitch toward Henry, doubtless asking for her understanding.
Miss Stitch nodded and walked back the way she’d come. She did not look pleased.
Chapter Three
Emmagene made herway across the terrace, back stiff as a board, and cast a glance in her cousin’s direction. Honora was so engrossed with Southwell she didn’t seem to have any idea her cousin had been banished to the dark depths of the terrace. Emmagene had known of Lady Trent’s dislike of her and vowed before even packing to leave for the house party that she would not make a fuss no matter what was thrown her way.
A resigned sigh came from her before she could stop it. She hadn’t thought Lady Trent’s torture would involve Huntly.
The lighting was so poor Emmagene would barely be able to see what she was eating. Not that she had an appetite. She eyed her dinner companion, difficult to make out in the glow of the candles. Maybe if she didn’t look directly at him, Huntly would fade into the shadows.
“Wine. Here.” Huntly waved a large paw at a footman.
“So incredibly rude,” Emmagene murmured under her breath. She was already far too aware of the presence of his massive bulk so near hers. Huntly could easily be pictured in animal skins, stomping out of a cave with a creature clutched in one meaty fist.
Emmagene shivered. It wasn’t nearly as unwelcome a vision as she’d hoped.
“There isn’t any reason for you to mumble to yourself, Miss Stitch. In case it has missed your notice, we’re seated a great deal away from everyone else.”
“Not a great deal. Several feet.”
Huntly rolled his eyes. “My point is, feel free to speak your mind. It is doubtful anyone else will hear you, and if I don’t care for what you say, I won’t listen.”
Emmagene regarded him. “I don’t wonder that Lady Trent saw fit to seat you here.”
“Or you, Miss Stitch. I can’t think of any reason”—sarcasm dripped from his words—“you wouldn’t be at the main table and basking in Lady Trent’s company. Or conversing with Lady Bainbridge and her nitwit niece.”
Emmagene’s jaw clamped so tightly she might break a tooth. Huntly, damn him, had a valid point. Perhaps Lady Trent’s dislike was due to more than Emmagene’s treatment of Southwell. Her personality could be exacting to those that didn’t know her well.
Come, Emmagene. Your own mother claims you are caustic.
“And, Miss Stitch, if I don’t remind this fine young man that we are here”—Huntly gestured to a footman, who looked terrified to have gained the earl’s attention—“they’ll forget about us.”
“I doubt anyone could forget about you, my lord.” His personality alone might scar a person after their being exposed for too long. “I’m sure Southwell’s staff is very well trained. You only take great delight in being boorish, my lord.”
“Boorish?”
