“Our hostess is undoubtedly busy with a great many other worries,” Dorset said, his tone grim. “Cease protesting. The sooner this is done, the better for the both of us.”
With that pronouncement, he flipped up her skirts suddenly and unexpectedly. She didn’t have the chance to shield herself.
Warm summer’s air kissed her naked thighs. And her naked…elsewhere.
“My lord!” she exclaimed, pressing her thighs together and then crying out in pain as the bee sting reminded her of its presence.
“Lord Dorset!”
“Lady Clementine?”
The interrupting voices made her heart plummet. A group of fellow guests barreled around the corner of the maze. Lady Fangfoss was at the vanguard, with Miss Olive L’arbre and Miss Melanie Pennypacker, along with Lord Fangfoss and Mr. Phineas Prince. Everything inside her shriveled at the unwanted audience.
Meanwhile, there Clementine sat, her skirts rucked about her waist, the Marquess of Dorset on his knees before her. Her mortification was complete. And the last words he had said, lest anyone had overheard?The sooner this is done, the better for the both of us.
To say nothing of her lack of drawers.
She fumbled with her silk and petticoats, struggling to draw them into place. Her knees slammed together once more despite the bee sting, though a swift inhalation and a great deal of pain accompanied the action.
Dorset reacted with much more haste than her addled mind was currently able to manage. He flipped her gown down all the way, until no part of her was on display, and then rose, turning to face their sudden company.
Why had she not worn drawers? If any of them had seen her most intimate flesh—Lord Dorset included, Clementine was sure she would die a swift and humiliated death.
It is exceedingly hot out, Charity had told her with the effortless lack of concern only Lady Charity Manners possessed.I never wear drawers in the summer. Layers are despicable and stifling. Summer is a time of freedom from the tyranny of strict dressing rules, Tiny.And Clementine had been persuaded. But now…
Well.
Clearly her dear finishing school chum Charity had never been caught with a bee up her skirts or her gown raised and a man on his knees before her during those times of summer freedom.
“Lady Clementine has been stung by a bee,” Dorset announced to the shocked house party guests gaping at them. “I was coming to her aid, and I…forgot myself. Especially after she had agreed, in the seconds before the bee sting, to become my wife.”
Clementine had been following the marquess’s speech, pleased by his deflection. Up until that very last bit.
To become my wife.
Wife?
What the devil?
The urge to kick him in his bottom—which she took that moment to observe was finely formed even beneath the tails of his tweed coat—was tempting indeed.
She cleared her throat. “My lord.”
He ignored her. “Forgive me, Lord and Lady Fangfoss, but the love Lady Clementine and I share is too strong. Indeed, I cannot help but to think your house party has facilitated the blossoming of this wondrous love between us. I cannot express my gratitude enough. Until my arrival here, I was convinced I would never love again. You have proven me wrong.”
No, no, no.
That was a lie.
A terrible, smoothly spoken, despicable lie.
“I was never capable of fathoming such devoted, soul-buoying love,” the scoundrel continued.
What was this? Had heintendedto ruin her? Was he in need of the dowry her father increased with every season she failed to wed? There was no other explanation for his reaction.
She aimed a kick to the back of Dorset’s knee.
And missed. Blast her legs. Too short. Always, forever too short. And in pain. She bit back a muffled cry of agony.
