Page 28 of The Rogue and the Viscountess

“A third wheel’s only good on a wheelbarrow,” Morys said. “I’ll hunt up my own bread and cheese.” With a casual wave at Pete and a bow for Prunella, he strolled off toward the house.

They stared at each other a moment. “Good morn,” Pete said roughly.

Fool, and fool again; it was well into midday. But he hadn’t seen her that morning, other than her big eyes staring over the bedcovers at him when he heard the maid coming down the hall early that morning. He’d leapt out of her bed, grabbed his shoes and what clothes he could locate, and was through the connecting door into his own room before her eyes had finished widening at the sight of his bare arse.

Or, perhaps, surprise to realize that what looked like the door to a dressing room was actually his bedchamber. He’d put her in the room attached to his.

He heard the maid delivering a morning tray, and since his grandmother also took a tray in her room, Pete was in the habit of fortifying himself from the kitchen, usually cold meats and cheese on a roll of some kind and a cup of hot, black coffee he drank standing up in the parlor before he ventured outside to greet the day. Barbara reproved him for the hand he took in manual tasks, and she would have kittens over his digging the ha-ha by himself, bemoaning how it would look to the neighbors did anyone ride by and see the baronet without his coat, sleeves rolled up, operating a shovel.

His forearms tingled as Prunella’s gaze swept over him. He looked around for his coat.

“You needn’t on my account,” she said softly.

He paused in the act of rearranging his sleeves and met her eyes. He couldn’t read her expression. She was prim and courteous, all grace and comportment, and yet she looked as delicious as a comfit. She would taste like sugar, did he put his mouth on her.

He wondered if she would allow him to put his mouth on her again. He desperately hoped so.

“Pigeon pie, did you say?” Ah, what a fine one he was for courtship. He was about as smooth in his manner as a boulder tumbled off a mountain in Wales, and she was as lush as Wiltshire in autumn, all rounded mounds and sleek rises.

“But why here?” What he meant was, why had she come to him? Did she want his company? Was she a tenth as stunned as he was by the pleasure they’d shared last night, and what it might mean?

He’d approached her knowing from the gate that he wanted to keep her as long as he could. But he didn’t know how she felt.

She pulled a light blanket off the top of her basket and laid it on the turf beneath one of the rowan trees, then settled upon it, her skirts collapsing about her like muslin clouds. She opened the basket, and one of the Wiltshire Horns came to the side of the blanket to observe intently. The ram, Pete guessed, given the way its horns curled back on themselves. Prunella paused and watched the ram with far more wariness than it was regarding her.

“Is it just going to stand there?”

“It knows you have food. They’re not afraid of people, these sheep. I can call over the shepherd boy. He’s somewhere about.”

“As long as he doesn’t eat my pie,” Prunella said. “The sheep, I mean.”

“Shoo, Remus. Go on.” Pete flapped his hands at the animal, which withdrew only a few feet, now regarding him with its soft, wide eyes. Pete lowered himself to the blanket across from Prunella, feeling like a great lumbering ox as she took out a pie wrapped in oiled paper, a crock that no doubt held the trifle, and various other small treats: pickles, hard-boiled eggs, and a jar of pickled beetroot and cabbage. The whiff of vinegar cleared his head.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She paused and regarded him. Her cheeks held a faint pink blush, and her hair had been sweetly, if not artfully pushed beneath her bonnet. Her ribbon was tied to one side of her chin, and he wondered if that was a touch meant to be pert or if she were suffering the lack of a lady’s maid. Great ladies always had maids to attend them, and he’d sent hers off.

To be alone with her.

“Do you mean, how do I feel about being kidnapped?” she asked. “Or how do I feel about the man who climbed in my window last night?”

He sucked in his breath, unsure how to read her tone. Was she teasing? Was she angry? What would it take to put her in temper again? He wanted her sweet.

God help him, he wanted to take her in his arms again. He couldn’t resist touching her. He reached out a hand and laid it on the stocking-clad ankle peeking from beneath the hem of her skirts, loving how sturdy she was. She wasn’t a woman he would crush with his size. She was his match, in every way.

“I mean the climbing.” His voice was a low rumble, like a shift of something deep within his chest. Something he’d long thought locked and immovable, cracking open. “And what came after.”

The pink mantling her cheeks deepened to rose, and she attended to the pie, pulling a pewter plate from the basket and deftly transferring a slice. She held the plate in his direction. She wore the daintiest gloves of cotton lace, with tiny ribbons at the wrist, baring a plump expanse of arm up to the puffs of ribbons on her cap sleeves. Good Lord, she was as edible as a tart. His mouth was not watering over the pie.

“Delicious,” he said, meaning her.

She looked away, and her reserve made him feel a bit frantic.

“I believe it will do,” she said coolly.

Did she mean the pie? Did she mean him? He would do, in her bed? For how long?

“Nell—”