Page 45 of My Devoted Viscount (Brazen Bluestockings #2)

“Or I could carry you on my back like I used to carry Xavier when we were in the nursery, playing at pony rides.” He took a moment to enjoy the mental image of her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck, him holding her thighs to support her as he carried her.

“But then neither of us would have our hands free, and I do like this pair of boots. Took a month to get the appointment with Hoby to make them.”

He snapped his fingers, pleased with the idea that popped into his head. He dropped down to his left knee, as the scar on his right knee was still sensitive after all these years. “You’ll have to ride on my shoulders.” He patted the top of his right thigh. “Climb me, cara .”

She dropped her jaw, then closed it with a snap. “I beg your pardon?” Frost fairly dripped from her words.

“In your young, wild days, before you became the epitome of a prim and proper teacher, Miss Walden, tell me you didn’t climb a few trees.” He tilted his head to look up at her through his lashes as he gave her a knowing grin.

She replaced her indignation with a hint of a smile. “I may have. A time or two.”

He patted his shoulders. “Climb me like a tree, and I’ll carry you out of here before the water gets any deeper and we both end up swimming.”

With a deep breath and a last glance at the waves lapping closer, she hiked up her skirts, gripped his shoulder and stepped up onto his right thigh, and quickly swung her left leg over until she sat upon his shoulders.

“More like mounting a horse,” she muttered, so softly he probably wasn’t supposed to hear.

He would not think about mounting. He. Would. Not. He was a gentleman, he sternly reminded himself.

After settling herself, she reached one hand down in a “give me” gesture, and he held his boots up high enough for her to take them.

With the torch still in her right hand, she tucked her legs against his chest and curled her body over his head for balance as he carefully stood up, and did not so much as murmur a protest when he grasped her knees with both hands.

One of them let out a sharp breath when he let his thumbs slip above her stockings to stroke her soft bare skin.

Sighing at his martyrdom, he reined in his base nature. She had been amenable to a kiss earlier today, but had threatened to bash his teeth in with a candlestick the night they met. She currently wielded a thick stick with a flame at one end.

Without him asking, she held the torch well out in front so he could see where he was going.

He manfully resisted the urge to hiss at his first steps into the cold sea and the water rolled above his ankles.

He inched forward, sliding his feet along the gravelly bottom, making slow but steady progress, in no hurry to step on a sharp rock, fall on his arse, or drop her.

This wasn’t the first time he’d ever held a woman so intimately, but it was the first time he’d done so when they were both fully dressed. And intended to stay that way.

By the time enough daylight filled the cave to appreciate the view of her lower legs against his chest, the water lapped at his knees.

Each wave tried to pull him out to sea with it.

He didn’t mean to peek but he couldn’t resist repeated glances at the intricate, colorful patterns on her stockings close up.

The wind increasingly ruffled her skirt the closer they got to the cave’s entrance, revealing embroidery well above the hem of her petticoat.

Instead of geometric patterns, the proper little schoolteacher had decorated her underclothing with musical notes on a staff.

Quarter notes were rosebuds, whole notes were daisies, all trailing along a set of vines.

He wanted to spread out her skirts and read what music she had embroidered on her clothing.

She sat up straight as he cleared the entrance of the cave, and the combination of the shift in weight and the buffeting wind almost knocked him over.

He stumbled to the side, keeping his “ ow, ow, ow ” silent as sharp rocks bit into his tender bare feet.

The wind helped push him uphill, away from the water’s edge.

He wanted to keep carrying her, even at the expense of bruising his feet on the rocks.

Keep his hands on her bare thighs, her legs wrapped around him.

“You can put me down now,” she said, leaning down to speak near his ear so he could hear her above the roar of the waves and the blustery wind.

He let go one of her knees long enough to point. “There’s sand just over there. I could carry you all the way up the bluff and back to the house.”

She lightly kicked her heels against his chest. “I don’t want to explain such indecorous behavior should anybody see us. Do you? Please put me down.”

When she nudged him, the feel of the paper crinkling in his inner breast pocket—her letters that he had deliberately not mailed while in town—prevented him from teasing her further.

She dropped his boots and gripped the underside of his chin with one hand to steady herself as he started to lower himself.

An imp of mischief must have taken possession of him, when instead of dropping to one knee he reached up and pulled her down and around, until he held her in an embrace snug against his chest, her feet dangling several inches above the ground.

Letting the torch fall and sputter out in the sand, she wrapped her arms around his neck, perfectly positioning herself for another kiss. Her lips were already parted in surprise. Staring back at him, her eyes were wide but not with fear.

He wanted to kiss her.

She obviously wanted to be kissed.

He was going to kiss her.

The sound of hoofbeats thundering toward them made him rethink his plan.

He was going to strangle the person who startled Miss Walden into pushing away from him.

Before committing murder on the person interrupting their kiss, he gently set her on her feet and let her go.

Without a backward glance, she hurried across the rocks and climbed the short, steep path up the bluff, and quickly disappeared from sight.

He turned to see what idiot was galloping their horse on the beach, coming his way.

Hands on his hips, Vincent watched Matthew ride up, rein in, and jump down.

“Was that Miss Walden scurrying away like a frightened rabbit?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Vincent growled.

Ignoring the frustration in Vincent’s voice, Matthew looked at him sideways. “Isn’t it a bit early in the season to go wading in the sea?”

Vincent sat on a nearby boulder to put on his stockings and boots. “I thought you went for a ride with Xavier.” He looked up and down the beach but didn’t see his brother.

“We had a lovely ride across the estate together, thank you,” Matthew said with a touch of sarcasm.

“Then we rode to the church to visit with Mr. Middlebrook. I thought if anyone would know, the vicar would be able to tell me where the Ebringtons live, so I could meet with Mildred’s father.

” He took off his hat and scrubbed his fingers through his hair.

“But he’s never heard of Mr. Ebrington. Or Mildred, other than at Gert’s dinner party the other night.

In a town as small as Sidmouth, how could the vicar not know who they are?

” He stared out over the waves. “It’s like they don’t even live here. ”

Vincent had his suspicions but decided not to voice them yet.

“Xavier decided to stay and ride with Mr. Middlebrook to visit a family that recently had a baby. Something about getting practical experience with the duties he’ll have soon as a curate.

Seems he is truly serious about serving in the church, not just fulfilling an expected role for a younger son.

” Matthew jammed his hat back on his head.

“When I returned to the stable, the groom said you headed toward the beach on foot. So here I am.”

Breeches unrolled and buttoned, stockings and boots back on, Vincent began walking. Only the bottom three inches or so of fabric were damp. Perhaps Lawrence wouldn’t have too hard a time getting the saltwater stains out. At least they were wool, not silk.

Matthew led his horse as he walked beside him. “I suppose I’ll just have to wait to hear back from my solicitor. I wrote him right after I realized who Mildred was. I’d like to have the banns read and set a date for our wedding as soon as possible.”

It’s as if they don’t even live here. If Miss Ebrington’s escapade in the storm with Miss Walden and in the secret passageway was anything to go by, Vincent realized, she did not live here in Sidmouth as a permanent resident.

Why had she been out in the storm? “You suppose she knows she was engaged to your cousin?”

“It would seem logical for her parents to share a detail like that with her,” Matthew drawled.

“Do you think she knows that your cousin is dead, and you are now Lord Wingfield?”

Matthew froze in mid-step. Slowly he put his foot down and stared at Vincent, mouth agape. “Oh my stars and garters,” he said after a lengthy pause. “She thinks I’m just Mr. Huntley.”

“What if she heard about your cousin’s reputation as Wicked Wingfield?”

Matthew clutched his chest. “A sweet girl with a spirit like Mildred could not possibly want to marry a beast like him.”

“What do you think she would do to avoid marrying him? To what lengths would she go?” Things were starting to make sense now. “Do you think she might run away from her family?”

Vincent stared up at Hobart Grange visible above the bluff, including the window to the room Miss Walden occupied, facts finally falling into place for him in a blessedly logical order.

“Do you think she might seek out a friend, a former teacher, for help to find a way out of an arranged marriage to such an odious man?”

Matthew smacked his forehead. “Of course! She must have come to Miss Burrell seeking help.”