She pushed through to the edge of the trees but then halted. The folly was empty.
Oh, but Delia had told her the bench wasbehindthe folly.
Fearing she was already too late, Bethany edged her way around the perimeter.Please let me be on time,she chanted in her mind, contemplating how mortifying it would be to stumble on Chase with any woman, let alone Rachel Somerset.
When the rather striking silhouette of a lone gentleman sitting on the bench came into view, she exhaled the breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.
Was Rachel on her way? Bethany had no doubt midnight had already come and gone, and she was doubtful Delia could delay her sister much longer.
Best to keep quiet for now.
Bethany tiptoed closer, certain it was Chase now. She’d grown familiar with the tilt of his head as well as the scent of his particular brand of cigars, but there was something else—something undefinable. If she closed her eyes, she did not doubt that she would have sensed his presence, the essence of his person sitting in the dark.
She paused and took advantage of the moment to study his profile. This was a rare opportunity to see him like this, quiet and alone, not joking with her brothers or putting on a façade for mixed company.
He had one arm draped along the back of the bench and was staring off into the distance. What would it be like to truly know Triston Aaron Corbet, the man behind the baron? What would it be like for him to want her the way he wanted someone like Lady Starling? To be kissed by him? To be the object of his affections?
The knowledge that she’d never have the answer to any of these questions pinched her heart, and she found herself ridiculously blinking back tears.
“Chase,” she whispered.
He stilled and then seemed to stiffen but didn’t answer or turn around. Had he heard her?
He reminded her of a lion in wait.
Chapter 4
Uh Oh!
Asnapping sound rewarded Chase’s patience.
She was here. Finally. There was no mistaking the sound of feminine footsteps as they crept up behind him. Would she attempt to blindfold him with a silk scarf she would have brought along for this very purpose? Or perhaps she’d use it to bind his hands to the bench.
Chase froze and held himself silent. On this one occasion, he’d claim the upper hand. He would set the tone for this evening’s game.
When her delicate hand landed on his shoulder, he was more than prepared. He flipped her onto his lap, threw up her skirts, and landed a resounding slap on her sweet derriere. “This is for being late,” he growled as his hand rubbed her tender flesh.
Ripe.
Warm.
Pliable.
He slapped her again. “This is for not wearing pantaloons.”
Slap.
“And this is for telling me you were going to Brighton.”
But when he went to slide his palm between her legs, thrilled at the prospect of finding soft, wet pussy, she began kicking and squirming.
“What on earth? Ompf! Get your hands off me! It’s me, you scoundrel! You cad! You villain!”
Perhaps if it hadn’t been so dark, or if he hadn’t been quite so inebriated, or caught up in his own particular brand of woes, Chase might have known instantly by the tenor of her voice, by her gasp, that something was dreadfully, terribly, horribly wrong.
Controlled flames materialized from the folly, illuminating the grass, the bench, the trees surrounding them…
The squirming woman in his lap.
