Desire punched him in the gut as he discovered her, glaring defiantly at him from the floor of the Marsh coach. It was the same desire that had led him to inappropriately kiss her in the shadowed hall of her own home. Worse, she’d not resisted him in any way; instead, the little nitwit had grabbed the lapels of his coat and pressed herself against him with a tiny whimper.
Christ.
Brendan had been unsettled from the moment he’d seen her at Arabella’s wedding. Upon being, introduced he’d behaved badly, pressing his lips against her gloved hand for far too long. Petra had worn a gown the color of spring grass, the pale tops of her delicate breasts pushing up against the silk with every breath. He’d had to rein in the urge to pounce on her and disrupt the entire wedding. Worse, she’d been seated next to him at the brunch, smelling of roses and oddly, sugar cookies.
Brendan adored sugar cookies.
Petra, to her credit, had attempted to engage him in polite conversation. In return, he had treated her with barely concealed disdain, the only weapon against her he possessed. When she had confronted him, calling him a monster, Brendan had only wanted her more. Perfect, ladylike Petra, fists balled at her sides, calling him a monster, had been incredibly arousing. Brendan had come very close to lifting her skirts and taking her against the wall. Instead, he’d merely kissed her senseless.
Nothing good could come from involvement with a woman like Petra.
Although at the moment, his cock begged to differ.
Brendan had ruined her gown deliberately today, behaving in the most ungentlemanly way he could imagine. Rude, callous behavior was guaranteed to push Petra away. Ladies hated poor manners. It would be better for all concerned if she detested the sight of him.
Which waswhyinviting Petra and the pompous Lady Marsh to stay the night was absolute idiocy on his part. But there hadn’t been an alternative. He could hardly leave them sitting in the road. Even Brendan wasn’t that much of a cad. Besides, keeping the Marsh ladies under his roof for the night was bound to make Pendleton livid. The prig needed to show a tad of emotion once in a while.
“I must thank you again, Lord Morwick, for coming to our rescue,” Lady Marsh repeated. The woman seemed completely unsure of how to converse with Brendan. She tried to hide her dismay at his rumpled appearance, the only sign of her distaste the small lines forming around her lips as she struggled not to frown. Did she expect him to go tramping about the woods in a tailored coat and trousers? She stared with muted horror at the sight of his bare throat. Lady Marsh was an excellent example of why he didn’t involve himself with young, vapid ladies of theton; they grew up into fussy, vapid matrons of theton. A horrible vicious cycle.
“The pleasure is entirely mine, I assure you.” He glanced at the top of the disabled Marsh coach. “I see no trunks, Lady Marsh.” He was sure she had a change of clothes for every hour of the day. Had her trunks fallen off?
“Our trunks, along with our maids were sent on to Brushbriar early this morning ahead of our arrival. Petra needed her rest.” Lady Marsh spared a glance for her daughter. “Nerves, you see. Meeting your future husband’s family can be rather trying.”
“I suppose it must be.” He ignored the sudden tightening of his chest at her announcement, even though he’d assumed such when Lady Marsh had announced their destination.
“So, you see, our things are at Brushbriar and we are…here.” Her mouth quivered in distress. “We’ve nothing but the clothes on our backs.” Lady Marsh managed to make the lack of clothing for one night akin to dying of the plague. She really was a ridiculous woman.
“Pray, don’t distress yourself, Lady Marsh. I’ll send a note to Brushbriar. I’ve a groom who rides incredibly fast and will carry word to Pendleton of your delay. I can instruct him to have a valise packed for your stay this evening. And I’m sure my mother will be happy to lend you her lady’s maid for the night.”
A choking noise came from behind Brendan. Petra had been unusually quiet while he conversed with Lady Marsh, though he’d been keenly aware of her, seething with anger, standing behind him.
Brendan turned, about to toss a veiled insult in her direction, one guaranteed to ruffle her perfect little feathers. The words died in his throat at the sight of her.
Petra was trembling and deathly pale. One slender hand was pushed flush against her lips, the other pressed against her stomach. A horrified look had entered her eyes.
“Petra, dear Lord!” Lady Marsh gasped, making no move to come to her daughter’s aid, and turned away. “You’ve torn your skirt.”
Brendan had no such reservations about approaching Petra in such a state, and he didn’t give a damn about her skirt since he was the one who’d torn it. She was going to be ill; Brendan had worn the same expression on his own face once or twice.
Damn. I knew I should have walked the other way home today.
Petra’s eyes widened at his approach. “No. Don’t youdarehelp me,” she sputtered before placing the hand back across her mouth. She loped in the direction of a thicket of bramble off the road behind the coach.
Brendan ignored her entreaty to be left in peace. She looked close to collapse.
Petra looked up at him as he took her arm. “I insist you release me.” Then she cast up her accounts. All over his boots.
3
My God. I was wrong. This journey can get worse.
Petra had done several embarrassing things in her life. She’d once tripped while dancing with Lord Rhys, and her slipper had come flying off, skittering across the ballroom floor. When she was barely twelve, she’d written a mushy note of affection to the brother of one of her friends who’d just returned from Eton. She’d been teased endlessly for months.
But never, had sheever, cast up her accounts on an earl.
A strong hand wrapped around her waist and firmly propelled her to a spray of bushes hidden from Jenkins, her mother and the remaining groom. Morwick grabbed her skirts in one large hand, hauling them up, exposing her stockinged legs rather improperly.
Petra twisted, trying to pull down her skirts even as she felt the remainder of her tea and toast from breakfast rise in her throat. “My God, you would take advantage of me when I’m ill?”
