Читать книгу Wicked Earl, Wanton Widow - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 8

Fall, 1830, Herefordshire, England

Killian Redbourne’s kisses could make a woman swoon. They had in fact done just that two weeks ago at the theater where a Mrs. Dempsey had been caught in his arms performing said feat (a stunt many suspected she’d engineered herself). Such was the latest rumor that had accompanied him down from London.

Rose Janeway was not proud that she’d succumbed to the inclination to gossip, but it was all the people of Pembridge-on-the-Wye knew of the man who would be earl. She excused her weakness on the grounds that no one had actually seen Killian Redbourne in fourteen years, not since his last quarrel with the Earl of Pembridge and no one had expected to see him again. After all, he wasn’t the heir, merely the cousin of the heir in case the unthinkable happened. But the unthinkable had happened. The heir had died a few months ago without securing the succession and the old earl had never recovered from the blow.

Tired of living with the reality that his prodigal nephew would inherit, the old earl had shuffled off his mortal coil and surrendered to the inevitable five days ago. And here they all were: a motley assortment of villagers, farmers and herself, gathered at the grave of the earl in the chilly October wind, drawn in small part out of respect for the passing of the resident peer and in larger part by the lure of seeing the rumors incarnate.

News filtering down from the big house held that Killian Redbourne and a friend, Lord Dursley, had arrived late last night in a black-lacquered carriage with wide glass panes and elegant lanterns for night travel. The carriage had been pulled by a superior set of four matched gray horses, no expenses spared and the trappings of luxury self-evident. That would have to change. If he wanted to succeed around these parts, he’d best put a damper on such a blatant show of wealth. Harvests had been poor and the day laborers who worked them even poorer these last three years.

The object of her ruminations (and truth be told, the ruminations of everyone assembled at the funeral) stood across from her, separated only by the width of the open grave. Over the edge of her prayer book, Rose covertly surveyed the rumors made flesh, concluding that in this case, the rumors might indeed not suffer from over-exaggeration even if her own rather heated imagination did. She’d been without a man four years now and the absence had been wearing on her lately. She’d even contemplated the notion of taking a lover. It was all very hypothetical. No one had appealed as a likely candidate, although since it was hypothetical, Killian Redbourne would certainly be a viable nominee.

In theory, he definitely possessed the potential to make a woman swoon. Taller than the other men gathered, Killian Redbourne drew the eye and riveted the mind. He wore his hair longer than fashionably suitable, although today, out of respect, he’d tied it back with a tasteful black satin bow reminiscent of an earlier age. His broad shoulders filled out the greatcoat to advantage, the coat itself left open to show off long legs in riding breeches tapering into high boots, offering hints of a trim waist and a well-muscled torso. Temptation of an excellent physique aside, Killian Redbourne’s best asset was his eyes; dark coffee orbs framed by long black lashes that flashed with a suggestion of laughter, and they were laughing now.

At her.

She’d been right and duly caught.

It seemed unfair that she’d been the one caught when everyone else was getting away with it. A slow sensual smile spread across his lips, igniting a certain aching warmth deep at her core and a wicked fantasy.

What would it be like to take a man such as him to her bed and ease the loneliness of the nights? Images raced through her mind of him naked and aroused, rising above her, his dark hair falling forward, his eyes hot with desire, his body slicked with the sweat of his exertions.

Across from her, Killian Redbourne winked in concupiscent conspiracy as if he knew precisely what she’d been thinking. Rose blushed. How could she not? Her thoughts were hardly fitting for a funeral. But their eyes held. Why not stare openly? There was no sense in looking away now. The damage was done.

It wasn’t the first time a woman had stared at him. The fairer sex had been staring since he’d turned fifteen and the blacksmith’s daughter had lured him behind a haystack. Women had been trying to catch him ever since.

He was thirty-four now and had no more intention of being caught than he had back then. It had become something of a game for him over the years. The risks had been higher in recent months, the pursuit more ardent once his prospects as the Earl of Pembridge were assured. Even so, his ability to keep his heart separate from his encounters had risen proportionately to the increased need for evasion.

Killian studied the striking woman, letting a slow smile take his mouth, the smile that said he was aware of her scrutiny and was most ably returning it. She was slightly taller than most, with a firm, high bosom (his preference) and long legs (also his preference), and her hair, what he could see of it beneath her bonnet, promised to be a rich shade of red-gold. All in all, a very nice package.

To his surprise and delight, her forget-me-not-blue eyes did not look away. Perhaps this visit to the hinterlands of Herefordshire wouldn’t be without its comforts after all. The earl’s funeral had inconveniently drawn him away from some deuced excellent hunting and he was eager to get back to it. But in the meanwhile it appeared Herefordshire had its own charms.

Beside him, his traveling companion, Peyton Ramsden, the Earl of Dursley, nudged him none too gently in the ribs, reminding him flirtatious shenanigans had no proper place at a somber occasion. Well, maybe not for Peyton. Peyton didn’t have a reputation for the shocking to uphold.

It hardly mattered to Killian what the people of Pembridge-on-the-Wye thought of him. No doubt they’d been living on speculation and hearsay for years in regards to him. He’d hear the reading of the will, consult the steward who’d been running the estate for ages, give him instructions along with an address of contact and be on his way in two days—tops, the pretty woman across the grave site notwithstanding. Still, two days was a long time to be alone when one was Killian Redbourne.