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“I was relieved to be reading English. My French is not nearly as good.”
“You were aroused by what you read.”
She blushed. Her loveliness had somehow grown from a year ago. He wanted nothing more than to reach for her, but if he did, he was unsure he could stop himself from taking her upon the pebbled ground. Or maybe he could pin her against a tree, her legs wrapped about him.
“As was Lord Devon,” she murmured.
His jaw clenched. He would have her refrain from ever uttering that name.
“If you’ve a strong desire to read de Sade, I can procure you a copy of Justine.”
“Hopefully in less than two day’s time, I will have a hundred pounds from you. I do not require more than that.”
Their remaining time together sounded awfully short of a sudden. He had to have her soon. And all to himself. The ride and picnic with Devon and Isabella had been his own doing so that he could keep an eye upon Isabella.
“We have walked a ways and should return.”
They turned around and headed back to the picnic. There was no more talk of de Sade or Cleland. He admired the comfort of their silence. He knew far too many women who felt the need to fill a void with chatter.
When they came upon Isabella and Devon, he sensed something amiss. Isabella was staring into her glass of wine, her mouth twisted as if she had stomach ache. There was moisture in her eyes, and her hair was a bit mussed. Devon was lounging an arm’s length from her, reading from Justine.
Dear God.
Halsten fisted his hand. It was all he could do not to take the riding crop and whip the man into oblivion.
“Let us return to the Chateau,” he said.
They packed their articles. Isabella had the deportment of a shy little girl as she wordlessly went to stand beside her horse. He went to assist her in mounting, leaving Devon to do the same for Miss Herwood. Isabella winced as she sat upon the horse. He steeled himself and said nothing.
Isabella was silent the entire ride back. Devon prattled on about inane matters, addressing most of his comments to Miss Herwood, who listened politely and occasionally voiced her acknowledgment of what he said.
“I think a nap would do me good,” Devon said after their horses had been seen to the stables. “Proper rest is required for the nighttime activities at Follet.”
He bid them all adieu in the foyer and headed off to the East Wing. Halsten looked between Miss Herwood and Lady Isabella, whose eyes remained downcast. Fortunately, he saw Bhadra from the corner of his eye.
He called to the maid, “Bhadra, please escort Miss Sherwood to her chambers and assist her with her riding habit.”
After seeing Miss Herwood off with Bhadra, he turned to Isabella. “May I escort you to your room, m’lady?”
Isabella placed her hand in the crook of his arm and they walked wordlessly to her room.
“Isabella, are you well?” he asked after he had seated her upon the settee and rang for the maid.
She nodded.
He took a fortifying breath. “Did Lord Devon hurt you?”
She shook her head, then abruptly looked up at him. “I did not expect it to hurt so. It was nothing at all like what Cleland described.”
He tried to temper his anger at Devon for even the most tender of lovers could not grant a painless penetration of the hymen. He remembered the one and only time he had been with a virgin, a young Indian maid. She had shrieked so loudly, he had been frightened out of her. Then she had taken to such fits of sobbing as to convince him that he was surely the most miserable bastard alive.
“Are you bleeding much?” he asked gently.
“I have not determined, but there is a viscous moisture there.”
Lord Devon’s seed. The thought made him sick.
“A bath will cleanse and refresh you,” he told her. “Then you should consider returning to London.”
