Page 6

T he headmaster at Eton could attest to Finley’s lack of academic excellence. He’d always preferred to be outside. Riding. Fencing. Boxing. Anything physical. Seemed a waste to be cooped up in a library with a book. Or trapped at a desk.

Miss Peregrine cleared her throat. “How do you spend your time, if I may ask. Your…occupation.”

A brilliant question. As of late, he’d been busy being a marquess, which was much less amusing than he’d anticipated.

He could manage the estate just fine, especially with a team of secretaries, but—he’d always wanted to work with horses.

Training them. Racing them. Before he’d, unfortunately, inherited.

His dream, when David had been alive, was to one day breed horses after wedding some nitwit his mother picked out.

Finley spent a great deal of time and money at Tattersalls.

And though he gambled on horses at Newmarket, he attended mostly to admire the animals.

“I work with horses,” he said, feeling the promise of the words.

She nodded, smiling back, assuming he did so on behalf of Lord Tenburgh.

I’m Tenburgh.

Yes, but he was enjoying not being Tenburgh and Miss Peregrine.

Finley didn’t want to spoil all her indignation and snippy speech by admitting he was a marquess.

He was fairly certain she would be deferential of his title, overly polite, but not the least impressed.

Besides, he liked the way she said his name. No one ever called him Finley anymore.

“You care for Tenburgh’s horses?” she asked when he neglected to volunteer any more information.

“I suppose you could say so.”

Her eyes drifted over him again, trying not to notice his naked chest. Poor Miss Peregrine was mildly scandalized by the sight of so much skin, but that didn’t stop her from looking. After all, it was only fair. He was most definitely looking at her.

“Should we see what is in my basket?”

She nodded, obviously not pleased.

Opening the top, Finley whistled in appreciation. Orchard Park was known for its kitchens. The duke had an excellent cook. If he could keep his hands off Miss Peregrine, Finley might even get invited to dine with Ware after this.

Debatable . The thought of touching the entomologist had Finley’s cock twitching.

“Thinly sliced roast beef. Fresh bread.” Finley pulled out a small tablecloth and spread it on the ground. “Cheese. Strawberries. A jug of water and,” he said with a flourish, “this. Were you planning an assignation, Miss Peregrine?” He held up a bottle of wine. Excellent vintage.

He kept a smile on his face though he didn’t care at all for the thought of her having a lover.

“No,” she said, cheeks flushing a deeper pink. “The duke’s cook knew that I wished to celebrate once I finished today. I didn’t ask her to include—wine.”

“Thoughtful.”

“I mentioned I am searching for quality specimens of psyllobora vigintiduopunctata. Crucial to completing my research, which I will then prepare for presentation to the Entomological Society. I suppose the duke’s cook thought it would be a nice touch.”

“Is that important, Miss Peregrine? The presentation?”

The reeds still stuck in her hair bobbed. He really should tell her.

“Incredibly. I’ve written several papers, all well received, but this research on psyllobora vigintiduopunctata will help cement my place among my fellow entomologists. They are coccinellidae , orange in color with exactly twenty-two spots,” she informed him.

So. Much. Latin . One of Finley’s worst subjects.

Miss Peregrine’s eyes were shining a soft green. She was practically bursting with the anticipation of telling Finley all about her little beetles. Knowing he would regret it, he said, “Tell me more.”

A sigh of adoration came from her. So focused on explaining every detail to him, that she forgot, once more that her breasts were on display, though her shirt was drying rapidly now that the fire was going.

A pity. Her hands gestured about, describing migration patterns, numbers of spots— and good God , larva—to him, the passion for her subject apparent.

Honestly, Finley didn’t mind. He liked listening to her, even if he didn’t give a fig about ladybirds. Also, having her lecture him, even if it was partially in Latin, had Finley imagining all manner of wicked things.

“Apologies,” she stopped abruptly and gave an awkward shrug. “I tend to go on to the peril of those around me. My sister claims I once put all the guests at her dinner party to sleep.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Untrue, Finley imagined an entire table nodding off into the soup.

She looked down at her hands. “You are being kind. I know what I sound like. At any rate, the Entomological Society is of vast importance to me as is my standing within it.”

Finley could see as much. There was a bit of wistfulness to Miss Peregrine, a struggle to be understood. It was no wonder that having found the Entomological Society and her fellow bug lovers, that she would do anything to solidify her position.

Finley sympathized. He’d thought he knew who he was, merely Lord Finley, younger brother of the Marquess of Tenburgh and now…well he had to be someone else.

“I’m sure the society is impressed with your passion, Miss Peregrine. I’ve no doubt your presentation will be exemplary.”

“You’ve no idea if that will be the case.” She worried her lower lip.

That lip was plump and utterly rosy. He wanted to sink his teeth into it.

“Not at all, Miss Peregrine. I respect intelligence having so little of my own. I don’t imagine it has been an easy path you’ve chosen.”

“There are only four other women members in the Entomological Society, excluding myself. I do not wish to fail.”

The snap of attraction once more curled around Finley, though this time it was less physical in nature.

He liked strong, forthright women, which is probably why he’d fled London the second the Season wound to an end.

He hadn’t been able to find one. Also, Miss Peregrine spoke in the manner of a strict governess.

Finley decided to forgive her for swatting him with an oar.

“Oh,” she said suddenly, staring at his foot. “Don’t wiggle your toe.”

“My toe?” Finley looked down at his foot, surprised to see a tiny beetle, smaller than the nail of his pinky finger, sitting atop his big toe. Orange in color. Probably with exactly twenty-two spots.

“Don’t move,” she commanded.

A rush of arousal stole down his thighs at the words. If she told Finley he was a naughty boy, he would rip those ill-fitted trousers off her body and take her right here in the sand.

“I won’t move.”

Opening the leather satchel, she withdrew a small vial and a pair of tweezers.

The same items he’d seen Ware use. Leaning forward, giving Finley an excellent view of her breasts when the shirt gaped open— absolutely lovely —she plucked the beetle off his toe and hastily placed it in the vial.

Holding up the clear glass, she took in her subject and pulled out her notebook.

Finley could have gone up in flames, and she wouldn’t have noticed. He watched her as she scribbled away, pausing every so often to nibble on the end of her pencil, before writing out something more. After a few moments she shut the notebook and smiled at him. “That was quite unexpected.”

A strange, wonderful sensation pulsed against his chest.

Miss Peregrine was quite unexpected, in the best possible way.

“A happy surprise,” he whispered, unable to stop looking at her. Finley meant every word.

“You’ve lovely toes,” she said, staring at his foot.

He did? “Thank you.” He’d been with dozens of women and not one had ever told Finley he had lovely toes.

Maybe that was why he kissed her.