Texas Viscount

by Henke, Shirl

  Just thinking about the incident made him acutely aware of how long it had been since he'd had a woman. Almost simultaneously, a vision of silky bronze hair, deep blue eyes and a haughty turned-up little nose flashed before his eyes. Lordy, what he wouldn't give to collide with that filly again. She was small but quite an armful, and she smelled...just like the fragrance emanating from behind the boxwood hedge.

  Ah well, maybe one day he'd find her. Meanwhile, there was the fountain. He stepped into the maze of tall hedge, following the pathway's twists and turns in search of the musical call of the water. Why did the blasted English take such delight in making everything as twisty and complicated as possible?

  Sabrina sat beside the fountain, gazing over the last blooms of roses, fast fading as fall overtook summer. What a lovely place this was. Her mother had cultivated roses in the small town in Kent where she had grown up. Sabrina had always dreamed of one day owning her own small plot of land somewhere on the outskirts of London. It would house her school with plenty of room for gardens where girls raised in bleak gray slums could be introduced to the wonder of nature.

  She inhaled deeply and dreamed. Ever since Dex had left for Africa seven years ago, she had had one goal in life—being headmistress of a school for young women from the poorest classes, those unable to pay the expensive fees she charged wealthy Cits and even the odd aristocrat, so that they might give their spoiled darlings the benefit of proper deportment. Not that she'd been unhappy with her teaching work. She was independent, earning her own way and beholden to no man.

  Nor would she ever be again. Not after Dexter Goodbine. Ever since she'd arrived in London, alone but for her maid Katie, she had survived by using her only skills—a superb classical education, courtesy of her well-read father, and the most genteel of manners, courtesy of her mother, a baron's daughter who'd wed a mere squire beneath her station. Owing to her youth, Sabrina's first years in London had been lean, but gradually she had built an impeccable reputation and clients flocked to her. She saved every dime she could for her school. If not for Edmund, she might be within five years of achieving it.

  Poor, dear Edmund. She should not think ill of him, since it was he, albeit most indirectly, who had probably been responsible for the earl remembering her for Sophia. She wondered why Mr. Hodgins had asked her to wait here in the garden. It really was rather irregular, but the note had been quite specific, and when she'd inquired at the door, she had been directed here. Odd.

  From the second-story window overlooking the gardens, the earl smiled. As per his instructions to Hodgins, the very prim Miss Edgewater sat perched like a sparrow ready to take flight on the edge of the bench beside the fountain. He could see his great-nephew wending his way through the maze in her direction. With great subtlety, he'd casually mentioned after Joshua's ordeal with the tailor that his garden had quite a spectacular water display, a lure few men who'd spent time in the desert could resist. His four years in the sub-Sahara with Kitchener were one of the main reasons he'd had the fountain built when he returned home.

  Joshua, he was certain, imagined some horrid old battle-axe carrying a heavy wooden yardstick with which to cosh recalcitrant students. From every report, the lady below was gracious and charming. She would put his nephew at ease and make the task of polishing his rougher edges a bit easier. Well pleased with his plans, he turned and headed downstairs to his office.

  Sabrina heard footsteps behind her and turned to see him approaching. What on earth should she do? Or say? Had he mentioned to his great-uncle anything about Edmund's failure to appear and her having taken his place? Dear heavens, she was quaking in her boots like a green girl! Get hold of yourself. Just remember, he may be an earl's heir but he's still an American ruffian. You can handle the likes of this lout. “Texas Viscount” indeed! Texas Visigoth would be more appropriate.

  But, of course, she'd never had to handle anyone like him before in her life, from Texas or anywhere else. His chiseled features were bold, what many women would fancy as quite handsome, she supposed. The swelling around his right eye was still visible, reminding her of the perfectly dreadful brawl he'd incited yesterday. He was even taller than she recalled, with broad shoulders and impossibly long legs made even longer by those odd boots he affected. There was something about the way he smiled that made her heart speed up rather than slow down, no matter how much she willed it otherwise.

  And considering the leer in those smoldering green eyes, she most certainly did wish to maintain her composure. But before she could stop herself, the words burst out. “I see your manners have not improved since they released you from your cell. One might hope a few hours in such a place would have taught you better.”

  “Oh, jail doesn't bother me.” He sidled closer, inhaling the fragrance of wildflowers.

  “Because you've been in so many?” she asked sweetly.

  He nodded, and a lock of hair fell across his forehead. “One or two back in Texas,” he said with a twitch of a grin. “How about you?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Sabrina stiffened angrily. “I have never been incarcerated in my life!”

  He whistled low. “You sure do know some ten-dollar words. But unless my eyes are goin' bad on me, I'd swear that was you being questioned by those bobby fellers when I walked out of that jailhouse yesterday.”

  She almost blurted out that she had been there securing his release, but to do so would give away the fact that Edmund had not done it. “I was not a prisoner. I was a witness,” she replied in her frostiest tone, which was difficult since he was moving much closer than was proper. If only he were not so...tall.

  “Sure looked to me like you were in jail,” he said with a grin, placing one booted foot on the edge of the bench where she sat.

  Sabrina moved her skirt away disdainfully. Had the oaf no manners whatever?

  “Have I stepped in something I shouldn't have?” he asked, looking down at his boot as he turned it sideways to inspect the sole.

  Her face turned crimson. “That is no subject to bring up in the presence of a lady,” she said, jumping to her feet and stepping briskly over to the water. He followed her, ambling in that loose-jointed way of his, and once again placed his foot on the lip of the fountain.

  “My sincerest apologies, ma'am,” he replied in a totally impenitent tone.

  If not for the prospect of lucrative employment by the earl, she would have stormed out of the garden and never set foot in Hambleton House again. Swallowing her anger, she nodded, praying that Mr. Hodgins would arrive immediately.

  “You do look a lot different than you did yesterday. I liked your hair down,” he murmured. “It's a real shame to hide so much of the beautiful stuff all knotted up under a hat.”

  “A lady never leaves her domicile without properly covering her head—a fact any English gentleman would know.” The moment she spat out the words, she wanted to bite her tongue. This man would soon be a viscount and he could have her fired!

  He surprised her by chuckling. “Well, now, I've been accused of lots of things over the years, but being a gentleman was never one of them,” he drawled.

  The lout was laughing at her! “The reason for that is perfectly evident,” she snapped.

  “It appears to me, ma'am, that we've sort of gotten off on the wrong foot.”

  “You mean the one you repeatedly insist on placing in your mouth?”

  He removed his boot from the edge of the fountain and turned directly toward her. She came only to his shoulder, hat and all. “For such a little bitsy thing, you sure do pack a Texas-sized sting.”

  “In Texas parlance, I surmise that means large.” What made him bring out such waspishness in her? It was ever so ungracious, and if there was one thing Miss Sabrina Edgewater had always prided herself on, it was being gracious, especially to those less fortunate than herself.

  “Yes, ma'am, everything about a Texan is large,” he said in a husky voice.

  Having no idea of his intended innuendo, she merely gave
an indelicate snort. “Most particularly their egos. Perhaps Dr. Freud should have studied Texans instead of the Viennese.”

  “If ole Siggie had, he might've reached some even more startling conclusions about why women envy men.”

  Sabrina blinked in disbelief that he knew who Sigmund Freud was, and astonishment that he had slyly raised the subject of men's genitalia! Now his comment about Texans and size made sense. The fact that she'd been the first to mention the controversial physician did not mollify her anger one whit. “You, sir, are an utter troglodyte, possessing the concomitant social graces of an ape!”

  “More ten-dollar words.”

  When she started to whirl away, he could not resist reaching out and taking hold of her arm. “For a gal I found half dressed walking the waterfront yesterday, you sure do put on airs.”

  Sabrina slapped his hand away furiously. “Walking the waterfront!” she practically shrieked. “You believe I am...that I would...that…”

  She looked so damned adorable with steam coming out of her ears that his lust overrode his hearing—and his judgment. He pulled her into his arms and lowered his mouth toward hers, which was opened in a startled little “O.” He knew she'd taste delicious...

  He was going to kiss her! No man had kissed her since Dex, when she was seventeen. Somehow she didn't think this kiss would be anything like that one. For one thing, her former fiancé had not opened his mouth as he pressed it to hers. Too late. The Texan had made contact—and what a contact it was. He cradled her head in one hand while his other arm pressed her body against his, practically lifting her off the ground.

  His lips were warm and firm, brushing her mouth as the soft heat of his breath mingled with hers. She pushed her hands against his chest, but instead of beating on it as she intended, the shock of that sizzling kiss left them frozen, palms flattened against the hardness of male muscles. His tongue danced around the rim of her mouth, then plunged inside in one swift stroke, colliding with hers. He groaned and did it again, this time slanting his mouth for better penetration.

  In some distant, hazy part of her mind, Sabrina knew her body was melting. That must be the reason she remained immobile, allowing this barbarian to take such unspeakable liberties with her person. In broad daylight! In the middle of Lord Hambleton's garden! Where his secretary would arrive at any moment? That last thought galvanized her. She balled up her fists and pounded on his chest with one while the other aimed at his good eye.

  Let the blighter have a matching set!

  Her fist slammed into his left eye at the same time her pointy-toed slipper connected wickedly with his shin. He grunted and released her with an expression of utter bewilderment on his face. If not for the perfidiousness of his behavior and her horrifying reaction to his kiss, she might have believed he was unaware of having done anything improper.

  Josh didn't know whether to cradle his painfully smarting eye or rub his aching shin. Being unable to do both at once, he simply stood there, staring in disbelief at the tiny bundle of wrath who glowered up at him as if he were Jack the Ripper. “Now, what in tarnation made you change your mind?” was all he could think to ask.

  “You—you seize hold of my person and impose your unwanted advances upon me and then dare to ask—”

  “Unwanted advances? You sure could've fooled me, the way you practically melted in my arms and opened your mouth like a baby robin waiting for a fat juicy worm. A woman like you ought to know how to refuse a fellow if she's not on the market,” he added angrily. Damn, but his eye and shin hurt!

  “Are you accusing me of being a...a prostitute?” She could hardly wrap her mouth around the word.

  He crossed his arms over that impossibly wide chest and glowered at her. “Considering our two previous meetings were on the wharf and in jail, it seems right reasonable to me. My only question is, what the hell are you doing all decked out like a schoolmarm, sunning yourself in my uncle's garden?”

  A curtain of red rage seemed to descend over her eyes. The nerve of the man! The colossal, unimaginable temerity—why, it made her so furious she wanted to strike him again. Before her judgment could rein in her temper, Sabrina slapped his face as hard as she could, wiping that smirk from it; but before she could beat a strategic retreat, he wrapped his large hand around her tiny wrist.

  “Don't try that again,” he said levelly, sick and tired of having a gnat of a woman thump him worse than that beefy pimp on the dock.

  All he intended to do was stop her from inflicting further damage, that was the Lord's own truth. But the fool female jerked her hand away so hard that he lost purchase on the silk sleeve of her dress. She slipped from his grip and overbalanced, catching the back of her knees against the lip of the fountain and tumbling into the cool, bubbling water.

  Sabrina landed with a loud splash, splattering water all over the impossible Texan. Since the pool was only a foot and a half deep, her soft derriere connected rather painfully with the cement bottom as her head dipped below the surface. She inhaled at least half the contents, or so it seemed to her as she came up for air, coughing and floundering. The final indignity was that her head was positioned directly beneath the urn in the hands of the Grecian god whence issued the steady stream of water.

  Her hair was unfastened from its pins, plastered to her shoulders. Yet another of her three remaining hats was ruined, floating lazily out of reach, its feathers limply fanning out on the choppy waves. To add insult to injury, that Texas troglodyte was laughing at her as he leaned one boot on the lip of the pool and extended his hand, offering to help her out.

  Hell would freeze before she accepted his assistance. She tried to stand up on her own, but the bottom of the pool was slippery with algae. All she succeeded in doing was falling in over her head a second time. The Grecian god, another accursed male, continued raining water on her as she struggled to catch her breath and regain her balance.

  Lordy, he could hardly believe how different she looked with that prissy dark blue dress molded to her skin. Every curve and hollow was accentuated. The silk had become almost translucent in the water. If not for all the foolish falderal females insisted on wearing, he would be able to see everything. But he could see enough. Lush rounded breasts stood at attention with nipples hardened into tiny points by the cold water. Sleekly rounded hips and calves practically begged for a man's hands to glide over them. And as for that bottom...well, he could imagine sinking his fingers into the silky softness of it and pulling her against his—

  “Good heavens, Miss Edgewater!” a voice exclaimed in horror. Angry that his delightful reverie had been interrupted, Josh turned to see Wilfred Hodgins scurrying across the garden. The first time he'd met the acerbic little man, Josh had thought he looked as if he'd been weaned on persimmons. Now his face was blank with amazement.

  Not wanting his uncle's officious secretary to touch his prize, Josh stepped into the fountain and scooped up the struggling female, then gallantly set her on dry ground before Hodgins could reach them.

  She rewarded her rescuer by shoving him so that he tumbled backwards into the water and coshed his head against the urn on his way down.

  Chapter Four

  The next thing he remembered was waking up with a two-quart Who Shot John headache as Wilfred Hodgins' agitated face faded in and out of focus above him. Lordy, the man had worse breath than a trail drover with a plug of Lucky Boy stuffed inside his cheek. The smell was enough to gag a buck maggot. Josh turned his face away and tried to take a deep breath, but the image of his attacker caught the corner of his eye just as he started coughing up water. She was as soaked to the gills as he, but he liked the way she looked with all that silk plastered to her curves.

  Her step was more of a stomp as she vanished into the hedge, leaving him with the parting image of her perfectly delicious buttocks swaying gently in spite of her obviously furious departure. He wondered where she lived and how she'd get home in such a condition. “Give me a hand, man,” he commanded the prune-faced secretar
y, who seemed frozen in myopic horror, staring at his employer's heir through thick lenses perched precariously on the edge of his nose.

  Hodgins complied, and Josh climbed out of the fountain. His custom-made boots squished with every step as he started after the virago who'd attacked him. By the time he caught up with her, she was standing forlornly on the street, shivering in the autumn breeze as she searched in vain for a hackney.

  “You'll catch your death if you don't dry off,” he said as he limped up behind her. When she whirled around furiously and raised her poor battered hat to use it as a cudgel, he backed off a step. “Whoa! I only meant to help.”

  “You've helped me quite enough, Mr. Cantrell, for one day. In fact, for the duration of my life should I live to be one hundred!”

  “Not fair. Where's your British sense of fair play? You know my name and I don't know yours. What in tarnation were you doing in my uncle's garden?”

  Sabrina clutched her ruined hat as if to swat him, but he made no move to come closer. Warily she watched the water drip in a steady stream off the tip of his nose. His second injured eye was beginning to match the first one, and a lump the size of a goose egg had begun to form on the side of his head.

  She couldn't resist a smile.

  “I don't see anything funny-looking about either one of us,” he groused.

  “You appear to have come out physically the worse from our encounter,” she said, smirking, but then her expression darkened. “But considering that you have succeeded in decimating half my wardrobe in less than twenty-four hours, I have not fared much better. A viscount may refurbish his wearing apparel far more easily than a teacher.”