If she tossed the chicken in just the right way, with a flick of her wrist, the bone should land right in the center of Beatrice’s forehead. What sort of nitwit was Beatrice to suggest Romy had deliberately gone into the woods in the hopes Granby would decide she needed rescue and come looking for her? The timing alone would take far more patience than Romy possessed.
Dabbing at her lips with a napkin, Romy set the remainder of the chicken on her plate. Lady Molsin might object to having one of her guests pelt the other with a chicken bone.
“I do like to sketch.” Less than fifteen minutes in Beatrice’s company and already Romy had reached her limit.
“That is my understanding,” Beatrice answered.
Romy looked away. Part of her wished she could shake Beatrice and ask if her presence was the result of Granby or because she’d somehow, impossibly, figured out Romy was secretly designing gowns for Madame Dupree. She didn’t really want the answer to either question.
She’d had quite enough of Beatrice.
Granby had joined Estwood and Haven, towering over both his friends and stealing a piece of fruit from Haven’s plate. He looked in her direction, his gaze passing over Romy as if she were merely part of the landscape.
And more than her fill of Granby as well.
“Won’t you excuse me?” Romy balanced her plate on one hand and stood, holding on to her skirts, deliberately leaving her parasol. She cast an apologetic look at Lucy for deserting her. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
Beatrice waved. “Don’t get lost lest we be forced to leave without you.”
Romy bit back her reply. After handing a footman her plate, she started out across the expanse of grass, glad now, after Beatrice’s odd comments, that she hadn’t brought her small notepad with her.
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.
