To keep her from looking too deeply at the man in her bed.
“Well, I thank you for introducing me to it.” She nudged his leg. “You’ve certainly put the sport in bed sport.”
He hated himself for saying it, but it was best to put her on notice. “Perhaps you can train your future husband. Make sure he keeps you entertained in the same manner.”
She huffed out a laugh. “You needn’t worry, John. I am harboring no illusions about our affair developing into something more.”
His chest burned. Damn, but she saw right through him.
“Besides, I have no intention of marrying.” She rolled onto her back and stretched. “I enjoy my liberty too much to ever subjugate myself to a husband. England’s laws are not in a woman’s favor when it comes to the institution. Once I have my four thousand pounds, I’d be an absolute fool to hand it over to a husband.”
He stared at the delicate gold tester of his bed. “Indeed.” He didn’t have to worry about Netta trying to entrap him. He should be happy. She was only here for her fee, enjoying a bit of sport on the side. She was his ideal bed mate.
He turned on his side, away from Netta. Her breathing evened out, easing into slumber, while his shoulders remained hard blocks. Sleep was a long time coming. And when it did, it was disturbed by a dream he hadn’t suffered in years.
His grandmother sat on a throne above him. Saying nothing. Barely looking at him. And when she did, all the loathing and shame in the world was encompassed in her expression.
John fell to his hands and knees, her disgusted gaze landing like a blow. And when he managed to lift his head, the woman sitting in judgment above him was no longer his grandmother.
Netta appeared as regal as a queen, her face hard as ice. When she opened her mouth to condemn him, he jerked awake, his body covered in sweat.
He rolled up to sitting, his head falling forwards.
Netta puffed out small breaths behind him, enjoying the sleep of the innocent.
And why shouldn’t she? Netta wasn’t the one who allowed a shrew to define her self-worth.
He climbed out of bed, gathered his clothes, and quietly left the room.
Chapter Seventeen
Netta poked through the offerings on the tray on the side table. Ever since the first day she’d been in residence, the platters had stopped being removed after breakfast, allowing her to nibble on the breads and cakes all day. A glass jar in John’s study was now always filled with her favorite Pomfret cakes. If she stayed much longer, she wouldn’t be able to fit into her lovely new dresses.
She picked up a puffy roll and had just taken a bite when loud voices sounded down the hall, growing in intensity.
The door to the breakfast room crashed open, bouncing off the wall. A head crowned in rich auburn hair pulled back into a low queue popped in through the open door. “Oy, he’s not in here.” His eyes lit on her and he stepped into the room more fully. “Mmm. Breakfast.”
Netta’s eyes widened. The man was immense, as broad across as an ox, and he was headed straight for her.
She swallowed her bite and side-stepped out of his path.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said, a hint of a Scottish burr warming his words. He nodded and plucked up his own roll. “I’ve been riding all night and with naught but a wee bite when I changed horses.”
“I told you he wouldn’t be in the breakfast room at this hour.” The Baron of Sutton clomped into the room after him. “You just wanted to look for crumbs.”
“And I found a big one.” The russet-headed fellow lifted his snack. “But who is this wee morsel?” He cocked his head, examining her from her walking boots to the roots of her hair as he took a large bite.
“I’m Miss Antoinette LeBlanc.” A man who appreciated a good breakfast roll as well as she did was no one to be intimidated by. “And you are?”
“An utter boor,” came another voice. Two more men entered the room. The parlor was large but these four men seemed to fill it to capacity. One of the newcomers had close-cropped blond hair a couple shades darker than John’s, and Hessian boots buffed to such a shine Netta swore she could see her reflection. The other was just as handsome, his bronzed skin and nutmeg hair making him look as warm as an evening fire. He slapped his glove against his thigh and continued, “You left mud all over my carriage, Dunkeld.”
The huge man swallowed the last bite of his roll and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Boots get muddy riding down from Scotland.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t explain how the mud came to be on the wall of the carriage, up near the ceiling.”
Sutton stepped into the middle of the fray. “Gentleman. Perhaps instead of skirmishing in front of Summerset’s friend, you should introduce yourselves and act like we have some manners.”
The blond man stepped a shiny boot forward and opened his mouth.
