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17
Aquarter of an hour later, Romy found herself a good distance from the rest of the group. Their conversation no longer broke through the grass waving gently in the breeze. Even if she screamed, she doubted anyone would hear her.
And she did feel a good scream coming on.
Several people had walked away from the picnic area and headed in the direction of the stones. She could barely make out Estwood from this distance, but Romy thought Lucy walked beside him.
Romy flopped back on the ground, hidden from the rest of the world by the tall grass surrounding her. She supposed someone might come looking for her after a time, or not. Perhaps she’d be stranded out here among Granby’s bloody barrows.
“Damn,” she said to herself. “Not a cloud in the sky.” A pity. Conjuring animals out of clouds was a hobby of hers.
Estwood’s voice lingered on the breeze, though Romy couldn’t make out what he was saying. Probably something gruesome. He’d started a tale of human sacrifice during the carriage ride, only stopping when Lady Molsin had shot him a pointed look.
Romy watched the long strands of grass wave in the wind, thinking of Granby. He’d kissed her endlessly by the stream. Even now, warmth crawled up her limbs at the remembered feel of his mouth on hers and the touch of his finger across her breast.
A slow curl of longing wrapped firmly around her midsection.
She’d wanted so much more than that kiss. She’d wanted to press her lips against his skin, see the muscles only guessed at beneath his coat. Last night, Romy had run her fingers across her breasts and down between her legs, dreaming of Granby, dark and savage above her.
“Thank goodness you moved, else I would have mistaken you for a blade of grass.” The words rippled across her already heated body.
To her credit, Romy didn’t lift her head or even sit up, not wanting him to see how his presence affected her. “So you’ve said before, Your Grace. I suppose it is an improvement over being labeled a shrub. You seem to have wandered from the main group. I believe Lady Beatrice is over there.” She waved her arm up in the air.
A noise came from Granby’s throat. Probably one of annoyance.
“You’re blocking the sun,” she informed him.
“You should thank me. You’ve forgotten your parasol.”
That was true. Romy may have intentionally neglected to bring it on her walk. She imagined Beatrice holding it aloft in triumph as a sign Romy had been vanquished.
Granby stared down at her from his great height, hair blowing against the slash of his cheekbones. There was a savageness stamped on his features, as if this ancient spot called to the blood of his ancestors flowing through his veins. And hunger. A great deal of it.
If she hadn’t already been so aroused by the mere thought of him, Romy might have taken a moment to be afraid.
As she gazed up at him, a deep ache started across her chest to match the soft throb between her thighs. A longing she’d thought never to feel for another person; one that was not returned.
“I have something I must confess.”
“There is no need for you to confess anything, Your Grace,” she said into the wind. “If you have come to voice your regret over what transpired at the stream, there is no need.” It pained her to know he found her so unacceptable.
His lips twisted in annoyance. “You’ve no idea what I wish to say.”
“Stop scowling at me. I grow weary of it.” Her heart had only begun to sort through her muddled feelings for Granby, and here he was, stomping about in his arrogant way, determined to undermine her progress. “The incident is forgotten. We shall never speak of it or endure an awkward walk again. You may continue to dislike me. I shall return the favor.”
The grass whipped about as Granby sat next to her with a grunt. He looked as if he wished to strangle her with his cravat. Which was expertly tied.
“Stop looking at my cravat,” he growled, “to see if it meets with your approval.”
“I was only going to say it is a lovely hue.”
“Like tepid bathwater,” he snapped, before stretching his long body out in the grass beside her.
They lay there together, only mere inches separating them, staring at the sky for the longest time until Romy’s hand crawled across to his, her fingers gently caressing the crease of his thumb.
“Andromeda.” Her name choked out of him. He rolled to his side and brought her wrist to his mouth, pressing his lips against her pulse. Dark eyes flashed across her face with the sheen of brushed velvet.
The merest touch emboldened her. Brazenly, she pulled his mouth down to hers, thinking only of being close to him. The confusion spiraling inside her settled as a sense of contentment enveloped her. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Romy notched her body against the hard length of his.
