The worry drained from her expression, and her brows drew together as though she couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or cross with him.
“I’ve spent most of my life in the company of men,” he explained further. “And I’ll admit I’ve little to no practice in conversations with the fairer sex. And, I was absolutely lying when I claimed ladies ever found me charming.”
“Didn’t they, though? I should think they found you quite … erm … at least more than passing … that is … I’m sure they found you…” She swallowed audibly.
One of these days, she might actually be able to finish a sentence in his presence. “They found me obscenely wealthy, as well titled as a nonroyal can be, and—as most aspiring noble wives will tell you is an extremely desirable trait for a husband—I am most often abroad.”
“Certainly you won’t be now … now that you are to be a husband.”
Instead of answering, he made a great show of checking on the limp prisoner and patting Mercury’s neck. The footpath meandered closer to the cliffs before forking either toward the village, or back to Castle Redmayne, and he wished he could think of some other reason to avoid the question until their return.
“I don’t know. After Francesca and I perform our duties as Duke and Duchess of Redmayne and the Atherton line is secure, I might venture back out into the world. For now, it seems, I must see to my legacy.”
It was her turn to stare for a protracted moment. “You’re like no duke I’ve ever met.”
Piers was becoming accustomed to the way she blurted irreverent thoughts before considering their meaning.
“And you’re unlike any lady of my acquaintance,” he volleyed.
“I—I didn’t at all mean that as a slight.”
“And I was paying you the highest compliment.”
She ignored that, glancing away again. “I only meant to say, you’re more at home in the saddle or the stable than in any salon. You and Francesca will have that in common, at least.”
Ah yes, Francesca. He made a noncommittal sound, hoping that would end their discussion of his future bride.
“Do you love her?”
He scowled. No such luck. “It is not necessary for Lady Francesca and I to have anything in common but our names and our children.”
“That’s a rather … mercenary view to have of marriage.”
“I’m a rather mercenary sort of fellow.”
She chewed her lip. “Do you even like her?”
He coughed to hide a bark of laughter. Francesca Cavendish was a sparkling ruby in a lake of pearls. She was bold, brilliant, and beautiful.
And he could barely stand the extraneous energy of her presence for longer than an hour before he wanted to tie her to something to keep her from moving. He didn’t like her. And yet, he didn’t dislike her. Come to think of it, what was his opinion of the woman? He’d met her all of twice. “I admire her … tenacious spirit.”
“You mean to say, you don’t even like her?” she accused, cutting through his veneer. “Then why marry her?”
“Why not marry her?” He shrugged. “We’re betrothed after all. Rarely do persons of our class like their spouses. I don’t have to like my wife to do my duty by her. Lady Francesca is a fair woman, she’ll bear me strong sons and beautiful daughters.” Or she would, if he could bring his cock to attention around her.
Thus far … it’d not even twitched in Francesca’s direction.
“The betrothal is good for our families. My father—”
Mercury whinnied, leaping forward and crashing into Piers, who then stumbled into Alexandra, knocking her off balance.
Piers was barely able to seize her and draw her into his body, twisting as they tumbled to the ground. He grunted as his shoulders and back took the brunt of the impact, then relaxed into a roll to soften the fall.
He planted his arms on either side of her shoulders, stopping them before they pitched off the cliff. He imprisoned them there in a tangle of limbs and panting breaths, lowering his body to shield her should Merc be close by.
He spotted the sodding stallion a few paces away, prancing around a criminal bumblebee.
It was a good thing, he decided, that Lady Alexandra had not given him the pistol, he’d have shot the animal between the eyes right then and there and dragged the gunman home himself.
His thoughts stalled at the intimate press of uncorseted breasts against his chest. Her thighs shaped to his, strong and sinuous beneath her modest skirts.
He tensed as arousal shot into his body with all the awe-inspiring power of last night’s lightning. It blazed through veins unprepared for the visceral rush, flooding his cock with such an aching need, he swallowed a groan against the exquisite pain of it.
She was built to be beneath him.
His body screamed for him to move. To settle his hips into the cradle of her thighs and press his intimate flesh against hers.
Her lips, he noted, were parted in the most inviting way. The soft little puffs of her breath a sweet-scented breeze against his beard.
His tongue found the indent of the scar in his lip. He hadn’t kissed a woman since …
The metallic click of her pistol broke the moment.
“Get. Off.”
Piers froze. The glint in her eyes, the set of her jaw. He’d seen that desperation before. In the eyes of his cornered prey, right before they attacked.
In that moment, he was certain if he made one wrong move, she’d shoot him in the chest, toss his corpse into the ocean, and be home in time for tea.
She scrambled to her feet the moment he rolled to his side, and it wasn’t his imagination that she kept the pistol cocked as she backed away from him. “I’ll make my way to Castle Redmayne from here.”
“I’d prefer to see you safely—”
“Don’t be absurd,” she spat. Her lovely features arranged themselves into a mask of disdain. “What would people say if I were to approach Castle Redmayne unchaperoned, and then you announced a betrothal to someone else tomorrow? I’d be ruined, and so would the wedding.”
On a normal day, Piers would have thought her a bit melodramatic, but he recognized that an assassin slumbered—hopefully—not paces away upon the back of an unruly horse. She’d narrowly missed being shot. Falling off a cliff.
And, if he were honest, being kissed by her friend’s fiancé.
What a bastard he was.
“Very well, Lady Alexandra, I will watch you home from a safe distance and follow when you are within the keep.”
She met his honeyed acquiescence with vinegar. “You may call me Dr. Lane,” she insisted, wagging the pistol at him like the finger of a scolding schoolmarm.
Piers put up his hands as a gesture of surrender.
“And … and … thank you.” This was said with more vehemence than politeness as she turned on her heel and stalked away with a starched-kneed march that would have made a brigadier general proud.
Piers reclined in the indent their bodies had made in the soft grass. Watching her leave did exactly nothing for the state of his nethers. It certainly wouldn’t do to return to the stables with a bleeding brigand and a cockstand.
Alexandra Lane.
Her name would haunt him for the rest of his miserable life.