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“I’ll stand here to make sure ye dinna fall.” Fletcher might’ve let her exit through the kitchen door, but the truth was that he hoped to see another delectable length of female leg.
Ye’re a rotter through and through, Fletcher Anthony Patrick McQuinton.
Aye, he was, because he didn’t even blink so as not to miss a single moment of the shapely spectacle.
Hitching her knee over the top of the wall, she chuckled, a lyrical husky sound that sent awareness of her as a woman winging through his veins.
“I assure you, I’ve done this many times.”
Just as he’d suspected.
“I shan’t fall.” She finished climbing over the top. “Good day, Your Grace.”
A nascent smile curving those ripe lips, she collected her basket and disappeared.
Arms folded and feeling oddly discontent and put out, Fletcher remained staring at the spot he’d last seen her bronze-tinged sable hair.
What a captivating creature.
She’s nae for ye. She’s English. A Sassenach.
English roses such as Rayne Wellbrook wilt and die in Scotland.
Her face appeared over the wall’s rounded top, and he couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face.
“Forget somethin’, lass?
“Yes.” A small furrow appeared at the bridge of her nose. “Please forgive me for taking it upon myself to make use of the gardens, Your Grace. It won’t happen again. I give my word.”
Too bad, that.
She appeared adorably flustered as she met his gaze before she dropped her attention to her hands, gripping the top of the wall. “I’d…uh…would very much appreciate it if you…uh…kept this between us.”
Och, so Sheffield and his duchess didn’t know about Miss Wellbrook’s clandestine horticultural excursions onto Fletcher’s grounds. Well, his for the time being, that was.
He flexed his shoulders in a casual shrug.
“Nae one was usin’ the gardens. I canna find fault in ye enjoyin’ them.” He winked and was immediately rewarded by another pretty blush. “Yer welcome to visit anytime, Miss Wellbrook. Just send a note around, and one of my staff will let ye in through the kitchen door.”
A narrow, cobbled alley ran between the two grand houses where deliveries were made to the kitchens and which also led to the mews behind the manors. She should be able to enter and exit without notice, thereby alleviating tongue wagging.
“I don’t think that would be wise.” She thinned her ruby lips into a flat ribbon. “Even the most loyal of servants gossip on occasion.”
“Ye may bring yer maid and a footman if ye wish to appear perfectly proper.”
Why was he so bloody persistent?
Just let her go.
No good could come of his fascination with the wood nymph.
“Rayne? Rayne?” The duchess’s dulcet tones filtered through the greenery. “Are you out here, dear?”
“Bother. I thought they’d left already,” Rayne whispered.
She put her forefinger to her lips, drawing Fletcher’s attention once more to their plump redness. Had she eaten berries for breakfast?
Would her mouth still taste of their sweetness?
