Why, oh why, had he so horribly over-indulged the night before? And what on earth had possessed him to leave Myrtle Manor and toddle off into the woods just as the dawn broke?
God, he hadn’t been that drunk in Lord knows how many years. And he swore, at this moment, he’d never drink again.
But something had roused him—a touch, perhaps?
“Ouch…” A foot. A foot was kicking him in the arm.
“You’re alive.”
“Of course I’m alive,” he grunted. “Stop bloody kicking at me.”
“You looked as if you could be dead, and don’t swear.”
A woman, naturally. Who the hell else would completely fail to respect the recovery phase of a true hangover?
He risked opening an eye, got half-blinded by the sun, and shut it again quickly. “Who are you?”
“More to the point, who areyouand what are you doing sleeping in my private spot?”
He groaned. One ofthosewomen. “You’ve got your hands on your hips, haven’t you?”
Silence, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric.
He knew it. She was standing over him with her hands on her hips, about to give him a dressing down for doing nothing more terrible than taking a nap on some lovely smooth grass.
“I have not,” she lied. “Anyway, even if I did, it would make not one jot of difference to the fact that you have no business being here. Now go away.”
“This is a forest, and as such open to anyone.” he huffed, turning slightly away from her. “And I’m trying to enjoy a quiet rest. Since I was here first, I thinkyoushould go away.”
“Hah.”
Garrett DeVarne sighed, sat up, and rubbed his hands over his face. God, he needed a shave.
Then he looked up. “Who the blazes are you? You’re not from the Manor…”
She was outlined by the sun, her features shadowed, but he could make out tumbled curls and a light gown, transparent muslin overdress, perhaps.
“You’re from Myrtle Manor?” Her question was sharp-edged, asked in a tone that was far from curious. More “if you answer incorrectly, I’m quite capable of disposing of you with the large knife I am holding concealed within my skirts.”
He sighed, and struggled to his feet, happy to realise that his head was actually going to stay atop his neck, and the worst of the pounding headache that had sent him in search of silent solace had receded.
“Yes,” he answered, finally getting a look at his inquisitor. “I am presently staying at Myrtle Manor. Not that it’s any of your business, of course, but Sir Harry Chalmers is a close friend of mine and last time I looked, he owned it.”
She was facing him now, and he blinked as he saw her features clearly.
Beautiful blue eyes glared, her countenance betraying her irritation. Dark curls tumbled willy-nilly around a creamy neck, and that silken-looking skin led down to a pretty ruffle of ribbon and lace on her modest gown. It was stylish and elegant, even though clearly designed for casual daywear in the country. He had a good eye for fashion, though, thanks to his mother. And his inquisitor was wearing a very nice gown that had to have been designed just for her.
This was no country-miss, for certain.
His rapid appraisal had raised her chin, but before she could speak, he frowned. “Who, one might inquire in one’s turn, are you? And where the devil is your maid? You should not be tromping unescorted through the woods, young woman.”
Oh,thatdid it.
“Howdareyou, sir?” Her body straightened sharply, her expression cold.
He almost heard her teeth gnash together in temper. Delighted, he awaited the fury he could see brewing behindthose lovely eyes.
“Let me inform you,” she began, “that you are addressing Miss Cherry Trease, of Forest Grange, daughter of Lord Hawthorn Trease, Viscount of Lesser Banthorpe. Our primary residence is less than a mile from here…” she tossed her head, “and this isourland.” Taunting him with narrowed eyes, she deliberately put her hands back on her hips. “Soyou, sir, are trespassing on Trease property.”
