Page 29 of Aurelia

“We?” he asked, his hand stroking Black Prince’s neck, making her realize that he’d come closer.

She swore she felt the heat of him all along her side even though he wasn’t near enough for that to be possible. “My siblings and I.”

“Ah, yes—you mentioned that you are the eldest of six. I recall thinking that you are accustomed to being in charge.”

“In charge of my siblings, perhaps, but little else, I assure you.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

Aurelia saw the groom was patiently waiting, his ears practically on stalks as he listened to her employer tease out her personal details.

“Here, let me help you,” the earl said. His large hands closed around her waist and Aurelia found herself being lifted into the saddle before she could protest.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said in a stupidly breathy voice.

“This was my wife’s saddle,” he said, his hands on the stirrup. “Your legs are longer than hers, so I will adjust this for you.”

Aurelia’s face scalded at the familiar way he manipulated her booted leg, changing the length of the stirrup twice before he was satisfied. The groom, Jemmy, stared respectfully at his feet, but Aurelia swore there was a smile tugging at his lips as his master manhandled the lady artist.

“There,” he said, his hand lingering on her ankle as he looked up and met her mortified gaze. He gave the supple leather an almost imperceptible squeeze before stepping over to where his own mount waited.

***

Roland had no idea why he enjoyed disconcerting the prim, frosty Miss Burton so much. Perhaps because she was so frosty and acted far too old for her age. The way her full mouth pinched whenever she looked his way told him that she heartily disapproved of him.

Last night at the dinner table, when he had, lamentably, given in to his anger and frustration and behaved badly toward Celsa, Miss Burton’s hazel eyes had become fierce with a protective instinct, her pale cheeks sporting flags as if she were ready to cruise into battle.

Roland usually did not have either the patience or inclination to enjoy baiting virginal young misses, but Miss Burton brought the devil out in him by snapping at his teasing lures like a starving fish, regardless of the bait.

He must be bored, that was the only explanation for it.

You are not bored; you want to fuck her.

Well, that was true. But then what man wouldn’t? She was bloody gorgeous and her tightly repressed façade only added to her attraction. Roland could very easily imagine how much pleasure he would derive from peeling away her reservations layer by layer, until nothing but a sensual, responsive woman remained.

Unfortunately for his excitable cock, he would not be doing any peeling. The last thing he needed was to alienate his new artist. Certainly not before she had finished the work he was paying her to do.

After that, however…

There would be no after that. Roland would pay her, deliver the paintings, and then plan his next expedition. There was no part in his agenda for deflowering virgins. Especially not if he wanted to use her for any future work.

However, if he was going to be this physically stimulated while the woman was living in his house, he needed to do something to sate those urges.

Unfortunately, his visit to Mary Neel last night had been less than satisfying. Rather than come away relaxed from a vigorous bout of sex, Roland had felt as if he’d just spent an hour being hectored by Arthur.

Mary was a skilled, confident lover, but she was always conniving for something when Roland was with her. Last night, both before and after they had slaked their appetites on each other’s bodies, the wily innkeeper had nagged Roland to give her useless, feckless son Mick one of the worker cottages, even though Mick was not one of Roland’s workers. Nor did the boy know how to work, as far as Roland could tell.

It was not the sort of behavior that made him eager to visit her bed again.

Roland had also been more than a little ashamed that he had thought about Miss Burton the entire time he’d been balls-deep inside Mary.

Yes, it was time for Roland to move on when he could not give a lover the attention she deserved.

“What is the population of the island?” Miss Burton asked, reminding Roland that he had promised the woman a tour of the island, not a brooding would-be ravisher for a companion.

“It is two-hundred-and-three—soon to be four.”

“That is very precise.”