"With my slight stature, I fear I would make a poor ball and chain."
A laugh rustled from his chest. "But your stature is quite charming and I daresay no barrier to any gentleman's pursuit. In fact, I'm surprised you're not already spoken for."
The laughter in her eyes faded. Her smile, too.
His chest inexplicably tightened, and he masked it by quirking a brow. "Or, perhaps, you are? I apologize for assuming otherwise. I hadn't heard anything from Percy."
"I'm not. Spoken for, that is. At least, not definitively."
For the first time, Miss Sparkler sounded flustered. Interesting. A horde of wasps didn't disquiet her, but a possible attachment did? Having his own aversion to marriage, he experienced a surge of empathy. Perhaps he and she had more in common than he realized.
Gently, he said, "Do you wish to talk about it?"
Her lashes fluttered like butterfly wings. She bit her lip—the plump bottom one. The one right above that wicked little beauty mark ...
"I don't think so," she said.
He cleared his throat. Tried to get his thoughts on track. "You can trust me. After all, you and Percy are sisters in every way but blood, which makes us practically related. Old friends, at the very least."
"We're friends?" Miss Sparkler said.
He was discovering many admirable qualities about Charity Sparkler. Beneath her unassuming demeanor lay honesty and wit, a steadiness of character. She was refreshingly different from the usual array of giggling debs and sultry matrons.
"I'd like to think so. One can never have too many friends," he said with an easy smile.
"If I may be frank?" she said.
He nodded.
"You don't seem to lack for companionship, Mr. Fines. Particularly the female kind."
The back of his neck heated, and he rubbed it. "That's plain talking, ain't it?"
"I'm afraid that is my tendency."
"And a refreshing one it is," he said ruefully. Her calm countenance made it strangely easy to speak the truth. "In a nutshell, Miss Sparkler? I grow tired of my habits. Of their lack of substance."
"Then why not find more meaningful pursuits?" she asked.
It must be the way she phrased things, Paul mused, that made all the difference. When Nicholas or his mama harangued him on the topic, his defenses rallied immediately. He hated being told what to do. Yet when this chit spoke, he heard no judgment, merely an observation.
He decided to test the waters. "Actually, I have. I'm going to compete as a prizefighter. Not in an exhibition—in a real tournament."
Her brow puckered. "Won't that be dangerous?"
"Not if I'm prepared. Before the tournament, I'm going to train in earnest. I've a patron, Viscount Traymore, and he's offered up a place in the country where I can practice in seclusion and without distractions. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to become a Champion," he said fiercely.
I'm going to show them all that I'm a winner.
Her head tipped to one side. "Prizefighting is an unusual pursuit for a gentleman. Why does it interest you?"
Not are you daft? Or how could you be so bloody irresponsible?
Simply ... why?
He experienced a wild urge to hug Charity Sparkler.
"Because I love being in the ring. I have a talent for it. Winning those exhibition rounds wasn't even that difficult—I could beat better fighters, I know it." Words rushed from him like water from a dam. "It would be hard work and a great challenge, but I think ... nay, I believe that I could be a Champion. That I could win the title and use that fame to start my own academy."
"It sounds like you have given the matter some thought," she said.
"I have."
"Are there any downsides to your plan?"
"I told Harteford and the other men. They think I've bacon for brains," he said flatly.
She smoothed her skirts. "You agree with them?"
He frowned. "Of course not."
"Yet you're allowing their opinion to color your own."
He mulled over her observation. Was he afraid that Nicholas was right? Was that fear making him doubt his own dreams? Had he so little faith in himself—was that his true problem?
"You are terrifyingly astute, Miss Sparkler," he said in wonder.
"Not really. I'm just acquainted with the Fines temperament." Her cheeks curved, and her beauty mark seemed to wink at him. "Once Percy makes up her mind, nothing can get in her way—except, perhaps, herself."
"My sister is fortunate indeed to call you her friend." He bowed. "May I also have that pleasure?"
To his surprise, silence greeted his request. She bit her lip. His breath stuttered as opalescent sparks glimmered in her eyes.
"We should go," she blurted. "The others will be looking for us."
Before he could question her non sequitur, she jumped up … and a cry escaped her as her left leg buckled. He caught her before she hit the ground. Sweeping her off her feet, he set her back on the bench and knelt on one knee beside her.
"Why didn't you say anything? Did you hurt your ankle?" he demanded.
"I … I might have turned it a little."
He reached for the hem of her skirt; her hand clamped onto his.
"It isn't proper," she said in a small voice.
"Is it proper to let you writhe in pain?" he said grimly. "We can't ride back if you've broken something. I have to take a look."
Her grip on his hand slowly eased. Thank God she was a practical chit.
"Tell me if anything hurts," he said.
He removed her kid boot with care. Encased in sturdy white silk, her foot was exceedingly dainty and feminine—shapely with little toes and the prettiest arch … with a jolt, he realized the direction of his thoughts.
Devil and damn, what is the matter with you? Get your mind out of the gutter.
He concentrated on examining her right ankle. Although he detected no broken bones, he could feel a slight swelling beneath the stocking. He'd have to remove the layer to truly assess the injury. He decided to sin first and repent later. Without further ado, he reached higher up her skirts.
Her hand slapped down on his. Though hers rested atop her muslin skirt and petticoats and his beneath, her grip was viselike.
"What are you doing?" she gasped.
He swallowed. Somehow she'd managed to trap his hand above her garter, his palm smooshed against the softest, silkiest thigh he'd ever touched. His temperature shot up. His cock as well. Thank God his riding jacket hid the rapidly burgeoning bulge.
"I was trying to undo your stocking," he said hoarsely. "To have a closer look at your ankle."
"Is that … necessary?"
Her breathy voice tickled his ear, made all his muscles stiffen. Had she leaned closer? He couldn't tell; her eyes were mesmerizing, disorienting, drawing him in … He tried to tear his gaze away, only to have it land on her mouth. Her lips were parted, that naughty bottom ledge jutting out. Was she this plump and pink everywhere?
Sweat glazed him. He tried to regain his senses. Tried to resist the pull of her fresh scent, like a newly made bed he wanted to roll around in. His heart thumped with unrivaled force. His fingers shook against her satiny thigh. Her tongue suddenly darted out, moistening her lips ... and his self-control snapped.
He yanked his hand from her skirts. Hooking her by the nape, he dragged her mouth to his.
She was sweeter than anything he'd ever tasted. Honey and heat … intoxicating. His mind blurred. He wanted more, delving with his tongue, and a fresh wave of lust crashed over him when she let him inside. Mmm, so silky and hot. His tongue slid against hers, urging her to play, and the shy, sensual brush of her little tongue shot straight to his groin. His balls drew up, his cock throbbing like a second heartbeat.
He tore his mouth from hers to nuzzle hungrily at her throat. Her unique, linen-fresh scent pervaded his senses, and he couldn't get enough: of her smell, her taste, her smooth white skin beneath his lips. He licked the pulse near the base of her throat, and
she trembled against him. He groaned when her fingers ruffled his hair and slid against his scalp, holding him closer to her arched neck.
He lowered her to the bench. His mouth captured hers once more, their tongues tangling, his hand fitting over the most exquisite little breast—
The thundering of hooves pierced his haze of lust.
His head jerked up at the same time that she stiffened beneath him.
He jumped off her. Backed away.
"Holy hell," he said hoarsely.
She sat up, blinking at him. A wide-eyed innocent whose bloody topknot remained almost entirely intact. His sister's best friend … whom he'd nearly debauched. What was the matter with him? Where was his sense of honor? How could he bungle things up so badly yet again?
His mind reeled in panic.
"I'm sorry. I—I don't know what came over me," he stammered. "I don't do this. That is, not with girls like you. Bloody hell, it was a mistake …"
"A mistake," she said in a faint voice.
He could hear their names being called. Any minute now they would be discovered. His cravat seemed to tighten like a noose as he tried to summon the honorable words.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "Don't worry, I'll do the right thing if I have to—"
Footsteps sounded. Seconds later, Nicholas and Hunt ducked through the archway.
"There you are, Miss Sparkler." After a frowning glance in Paul's direction, the marquess said, "My wife was worried that you might have gotten lost in the woods. Hunt and I encountered the wasps along the path—you are well, I hope?"
"Yes, my lord," Miss Sparkler said in a calm voice. "I stumbled upon the nest by accident. Mr. Fines found me and brought me here to recover."
Hunt's brows lifted. "A hero are you, Fines?"
Paul ignored the jibe. He was too busy experiencing chest palpitations. "There's something I have to say …" he choked out. "Miss Sparkler and I … we …"
"We escaped unscathed." She cut him off with the quiet precision of shears snipping an annoying thread.
"What?" he said, confused.
"Let us not make a mountain out of a molehill, sir."
He stared at her. "A … molehill?"
"It's certainly not the first unfortunate incident I've experienced. And it's not even the most memorable." Her eyes were as cool as moss. "I can only hope it will be the last."
Two opposing emotions warred within Paul. Relief … and sudden, irrational anger.
Not the first incident? Who was the bloody bastard who kissed her before me?
"Just in case, we'll have a physician examine your injury, Miss Sparkler," Nicholas said. "Are you able to ride? We've brought an extra mount."
"I'm ready to go," she said.
Taking the marquess' arm, Miss Sparkler departed without a backward glance.
EIGHT
The following afternoon, Percy returned to the guest bedchamber with her husband at her heels. One look from Gavin and her lady's maid scurried from the room. Peeling off her gloves and tossing them onto the vanity, Percy said excitedly, "Did you feel the undercurrents during tea?"
Gavin gave her a blank look. "What undercurrents?"
"You didn't notice anything out of the ordinary just now? No tension of any sort?"
"I suppose Miss Sparkler looked tense." Her spouse sat at the end of the bed, stretching his long legs in front of him. "But she's always wound tighter than a spool of thread."
"I wasn't talking about Charity—who, by the by, is not half as severe as you paint her. If I had to live under her father's tyranny, I'd be twice as tense."
"You've never done well with authority, buttercup." With obvious satisfaction, Gavin added, "Except mine, of course."
Percy decided to let him labor under the husbandly delusion.
"Charity can barely breathe without Mr. Sparkler's permission. He underestimates her dreadfully," she said with indignation. "And now he wants to force her into a loveless marriage!"
"Is that her opinion or yours?"
"Mine ... but it's the truth. Charity's blinded by her loyalty to her father. His word is gospel, and there's nothing I can say to convince her otherwise."
That didn't mean that Percy wouldn't try.
"Best not to meddle," Gavin advised.
"I'm not meddling. I just plan to,"—inspiration struck her—"fan the flames of latent passion." 'Twas an excellent phrase; she ought to jot it down for her next novel.
Her husband looked puzzled. "What are you talking about?"
"You didn't notice the undeniable chemistry? The crackling, unspoken awareness between my brother and Charity?"
"Fines? And Miss Sparkler?"
"Why is that so amusing?" Astonished, Percy watched as her husband's broad shoulders shook with laughter. "It would be an excellent match," she insisted. "Charity is exactly what my numskull of a brother needs—"
"A bridle may give a stallion direction, but he's not going to welcome it." Still chuckling, Gavin said, "Fines has no interest in your little friend. Trust me. If there's any fireworks going on, it's between him and one of those red-headed twins." Gavin snorted. "Or both of 'em. Randy cull, your brother."
Percy had to admit that the lascivious sisters had flirted shamelessly with Paul over supper last night. They'd batted their eyelashes and taken every opportunity to give him—and every other male present—an eyeful of their overblown charms.
Percy wrinkled her nose. "I suppose you would notice Lady Augusta and Louisa—"
The rest of her words were lost in a yelp as her husband yanked her onto his lap. His ore-flecked eyes gleamed into hers. "Notice, yes. Tawdry wares are hard to miss, especially when they're displayed for all and sundry." He nuzzled her ear, sending a familiar quiver up her spine. "But those high-kick tarts can't hold a candle to you."
"I'm not fishing for compliments," she said, looping her arms around his neck.
"You don't have to fish." With a wicked grin, he brought her bottom flush against his groin; even through the layers of their clothing, she felt the unmistakable evidence of his arousal. "You've already landed the biggest one."
"Is this the kind that gets bigger with every telling?" she teased.
"Why don't you find out?"
He set her onto the mattress beside him. Capturing her hand, he brought it to the placket of his trousers. His rock-hard virility quickened her breath. She gave him a squeeze, and he growled his approval. She'd always been responsive to her husband, but oddly enough pregnancy had made her even more wanton ... a fact that Gavin took full advantage of.
His hands planted on the mattress behind him, he ground his rampant cock against her hand, his eyes smoldering and heavy-lidded. "You know just how to handle me, buttercup."
She loved touching him and was tempted to give into the desire he always roused in her. But in all good conscience, she couldn't—not until she'd aired her concerns. The happiness of her best friend and her brother lay in the balance.
"Can we talk first?" she said.
"I have a better idea. Why don't you keep doing what you're doing, and I'll lend a hand as well ..."
His proprietary caress up her leg made Percy tremble, yet she said, "Please, darling. I'm ever so worried about Charity and Paul. And you always give the best advice."
"Bloody hell." Gavin let out a long-suffering sigh, but his hand stilled on her thigh. "What is it that you want to talk about?"
Percy flashed him a grateful smile. "Did you notice how Paul and Charity kept looking at one another during tea and tried to appear as if they weren't doing so?"
Gavin's tawny brows drew together. "I'll grant that there may have been some awkwardness between the two." Just as Percy was about to cheer, he said, "But that doesn't mean they're attracted to one another. Fines seemed antsy to me; mayhap he was itching to be elsewhere."
Drat. Paul had seemed fidgety. Could it be that he'd wanted to simply get away? Yet the way he'd snuck glances at Charity ... Percy had never seen him do that before. He either l
ooked at a girl or he didn't; what was this dithering about?
"Paul didn't seem himself. Something was bothering him," she insisted.
"I know the answer to that, and you're not going to like it."
"What is it?" she said in surprise.
When Gavin told her about the men's conversation in the study, she burst out, "Mama will murder him if she catches wind of this. Who ever heard of a gentleman prizefighting?"
"Conventionality doesn't exactly run in your family." Her spouse grinned when she made a face at him. "We tried to talk Fines out of it. The betting is steep at events hosted by the Fancy, and the cutthroats and bookmakers find the easy marks. There's no saying what your brother could get mixed up in."
Percy chewed on her lip. Since the debacle last year, Paul had given up his more dangerous vices, and yet she knew he had not fully recovered. Despite the carefree front he put up for the world, she sensed he was hurting inside. He hadn't been himself since he'd had his heart broken two years ago.
"Blast that Rosalind Drummond. This is all her fault, you know." Percy's fists clenched in her lap. "She was a beautiful, shallow flirt and had all the gentlemen dangling after her that Season. Even my brother was hopelessly infatuated. In fact, I think he was on the verge of declaring for her."
"Your brother never mentions this Drummond chit."
"That's just Paul's way. The more something matters, the less inclined he is to talk about it. He was entirely tight-lipped about the affair. But his troubles all started after Rosalind upped and married that Scottish earl."
"There now, love," Gavin murmured. "Don't get overset. 'Tisn't good for the babe."
Pregnancy did have the disconcerting tendency to make her emotions more volatile. Just remembering her brother as he'd once been made her eyes swim with sudden tears. Like his namesake, Paul had been a golden boy, one who'd drawn everyone into his orbit. Whilst he clearly continued to draw the attention of ladies, his charisma back then had been of a purer sort. One rooted in a true zest for life rather than hard-edged cynicism.
Percy blinked back moisture. "I just wish I could do something for him. After all, he's looked after me my entire life."
"You've got me now. You don't need him or anyone else."
Her Prodigal Passion Page 6