Page 33 of The Rogue and the Viscountess

It seemed obvious now why he had kidnapped her. Pete was still working for the Black Hound.

Chapter Nine

For once, Prunella Price was going to solve her own muddle.

She wasn’t going to leave it to her mother or mother-in-law to make a decision. She wasn’t going to let a man decide for her. She, Prunella Price, was going to do this herself.

She was going to use her mind. This wasn’t a feature people typically remarked about Prunella, content as most were to judge others on appearance, manner, and family connections. But Prunella possessed a keen mind, if she did say so herself. She was simply judicious about where she chose to employ her energies.

And this—determining whether she had allowed herself to be seduced by a criminal and a murderer—seemed a puzzle worth the application of her mental faculties. Also, there was the matter of what would happen to Jenny if Prunella simply disappeared.

“You are certain you wish to go with me?” Prunella asked Jenny one more time. “It may be a tedious round of inquiries that yield no result.”

“A lady’s maid goes where her mistress goes,” Jenny said stubbornly. “Mum—ye’ve come unpinned.”

“Oh, indeed I have.” Quite forgetting this was Jenny’s office, Prunella found the loose pin and readjusted her attire. She’d chosen a promenade ensemble in autumnal colors, with a smart fitted jacket of rust-colored velvet that pinned to the tight bodice and a full nankeen skirt that billowed about her legs. Lydia had wanted to put her in primrose shades, now that she was out of mourning, but to Prunella’s mind, one benefit of being a widow ought to be the ability to wear bold colors.

“Now,” Prunella said, looking about her chamber, “to find Sir Peter and ask to borrow the whiskey.”

This was going to be the trickiest part of the business. Prunella had little doubt of her ability to charm the residents of Corsham once she set out. If her dumpling appearance didn’t disarm folk, a bit of well-placed haplessness usually did. But her stomach knotted at the thought of trying to prevaricate with Pete.

Despite her other skills, dissembling did not come naturally to Prunella. Add to that, she’d been intimate with the man. She wouldn’t be able to hide the blush that came over her entire body at the thought of how he had touched her.

He was in the coach house, helping the groom harness a pair of horses to a curricle. Apparently the Wilkins possessed an entire stable of vehicles. A shooting break sat in one corner and an aged, stately landau waited, gleaming with polish, near a second set of double doors.

Pete wore the tailed coat he’d had on for calls the previous day and the same leather boots, but somehow he was larger and more intimidating in this masculine realm than he had been in his grandmother’s parlor. Here he was the bull in possession of his field, whereas there he’d been a mastiff trying to pose as a lap dog.

Pete Wilkins would never be a lap dog. Prunella swallowed hard against the fierce, sudden longing that burned down the center of her. She’d not let him into her room last night, pleading fatigue, but she’d ached for him. She wanted to grab the lapels of his coat and hold him still while she planted her mouth on his. She wanted to devour him as he’d tried to devour her beneath the rowan tree, drinking in her pleasure as she shuddered in his arms.

“You want the what?” he repeated when she finally managed to gasp out her request. The thought of kissing Pete stole her breath.

“The whiskey, please. Jenny and I wish to visit town.”

“I can drive you. My grandmother wants me to take the curricle to the Old House, some request Mrs. Guy made of me to help her son Anthony. An estate matter, she said.” He paused, that bewildered look coming over his face, softening his rough features. “Why anyone thinks I should know the first thing about estate management, I can’t say. I’ve been a baronet for three months. But Anthony is my age, and I could use a friendly acquaintance.”

Prunella’s heart did strange and unaccountable things in her chest at the sight of that plaintive look. Would a man who had killed to obtain his position look so lost about the possession of it? Would a man who had touched her so tenderly, hungrily studying each reaction to see how he could please her more, be capable of taking life?

She’d reached out a hand to smooth the frown from his brow before she realized, yes, he could. Rhydian had looked the verist gentleman in the chapel of St. Sefin’s in his wedding suit, and he’d killed men with his bare hands and his bayonet in war. Pete had used the same hands that pleasured her to beat the Black Hound’s debtors into compliance.

She couldn’t draw her hand back because he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, holding her gently. He closed his eyes, and his breath fanning over her skin drew a flame in her middle. Oh, she was lost, utterly lost, because she didn’t care about his past. She didn’t care about what he’d done when he needed money to keep his sister safe and had worked for a criminal to whom life meant nothing.

She only cared that he was the man who had carried her through a burning boat to save her from that criminal’s clutches, and he was the man she wanted to be with this moment and for many moments to come, exploring him, knowing him down to his bone and soul.

“Go to the Guys,” she said. “Mrs. Guy has found some excuse to lure you in and give Elizabeth a crack at you without the lovely Gertrude Methuen in attendance. Or me.”

He opened his eyes, heavy-lidded, and she fell into his dark gaze as into a forest pool. “Elizabeth Guy doesn’t want me.”

“Well, her mother wants you for her, and that is a powerful thing. I think your grandmother very much enjoyed seeing all the new interest the neighborhood girls took in you once they realized I was here to compete for your attention.”

His gaze moved over her face, studying each detail of her features, and she had the sense that he, too, wanted to see inside her. He saw more than her body or surface attractions; he wanted what lay beneath, too. And how often did that happen?

“My grandmother wants you for me,” he murmured.

“Now whatever gave you that impression? I’ll thank you to have the groom hitch your big horse there to the whiskey for me. I’m not sure how to go about it, myself.”

“That’s Creon. You can’t go alone to Corsham.”

“I’ll have Jenny.”