“
Oh, bugger me!
” hissed Cole under his breath when the man’s face came into view.
Engaged in straightening the pleats of her habit, Jonet looked up from her position on the blanket. As the man drew up before them, Cole wondered if his day could get any worse.
“Why, what a vision of summer beauty!” remarked Delacourt, opening his arms in an expansive gesture, elegantly dangling his bat between two fingers of his right hand. “This blissful scene wants only a picnic basket and a book of sonnets.”
“David!” exclaimed Jonet happily, bracing herself as if to leap to her feet. With a sharp jerk, Cole drew taut the lace of his shoe, very nearly ripping it apart.
Delacourt tossed his bat into the grass and bent down to brush the back of his hand across Jonet’s cheek. Cole could have sworn the bastard was watching his reaction out of the corner of one eye. “You are looking splendid today, Jonnie,” the viscount said a little wistfully. “Why do you not give me a scrap of that veil and let me be your champion?” Delacourt turned to look at Cole. “Amherst is a good chap. He shan’t mind, shall you, old boy?”
“Do what you will, Delacourt,” Cole sourly returned, “if you think it will help your game.”
Delacourt tipped back his head and gave his elegant laugh. “Good God, Amherst! You grow more amusing with every passing day. One cannot but wonder what you will say next!”
“
David—!
” said Jonet in a warning tone.
Cole sprang to his feet and picked up his bat, giving his left instep a vicious whack. “Please tell me, Delacourt, that you do not play for Eton.”
Delacourt grinned broadly. “Alas, no,” he remarked. “I believe we find ourselves on opposing teams. Rivals, so to speak. What will that be like, do you think?”
When Cole made no reply other than to glare at him, the viscount turned his gaze to Jonet. “You know, my dear, that you are expected to dine at Delacourt House tonight? I trust you will not be late.”
“Yes, of course I remember,” she answered a little defensively, shifting uncomfortably on the blanket. “I very much look forward to it.”
Cole turned his back on the pair. “If you mean to play, Delacourt,” he said, swinging his bat over one shoulder, “you’d best get on with it. It’s time to open the innings.” And then, with unchristian bloodlust hot in his heart, Cole headed down the embankment toward the pitch.
Jonet knew little about cricket. In the social whirlwind which had constituted her life prior to Henry’s death, she had rarely attended anything other than the most fashionable routs and balls. But cricket was becoming a popular fixture of the Season, and as she watched the gentlemen warm up, she began to see that the sport did indeed have some advantages.
Cole looked good on the field. Eagerly scooting forward to the edge of the blanket, Jonet watched the methodical movement of his arm as he pitched and caught the ball, and she remembered all too well the fine musculature and strong tendons that lay just beneath his clothing. In the afternoon light, with his dark blond mane catching every ray of the sun, he looked more glorious than any other player. He was taller, yes. But he was leaner and more agile, too, while his tanned skin made him look at home beneath the summer sun. When the teams went out to take the field, Cole took the position as the initial bowler, easily dismissing the first batsman, who just happened to be Terry Madlow. Captain Madlow merely grinned, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his cuff, and moved on.
Teams changed sides, with fieldsmen, batsmen, and bowlers alternating so frequently that Jonet quickly became confused. But as the afternoon progressed, Cole and another dark-haired man whom Jonet did not recog-nize rotated to bat, making several hits between them. Both batted with extraordinary skill, clearly frustrating the opposition and heightening the tension of the game. At some point, David had come into the field to take up one of the mid-positions, but Jonet paid him scant heed. She was far more interested in watching Cole’s body move across the field.
Finally, the bowler pitched a good-length ball, and the striker hit it, but with measurably less skill. Both he and Cole began running; crossing and making good their ground with time to spare. Suddenly, Cole turned on his heel to return, his partner following suit, but even Jonet could see that this time it would be a tight race to the stumps.
In the foreground, she saw David’s muscles bunch as he leapt up and out to catch the throw from the fieldsman. But Cole was still plowing ahead and straight for him. David made a lucky catch, snaring the ball in midair, but with a ruthless expression, Cole barred his teeth and pushed on, just as David’s foot came down near his path. They came together and tumbled to the ground in an explosion of arms and legs, the wicket shattering, and bits of dust and grass settling over them like a snowstorm.
“Run out!” shouted a gloomy-faced gentleman behind the wicket, staring down into the fray with a disgusted expression. Dropping the ball, David stumbled to his feet, one sleeve pressed to his nose. There was no mistaking the bright red bloodstain which was rapidly flooding forth.
And there was no mistaking the fact that Cole had caught him across the face with a sharp—and almost certainly intentional—jab from his elbow.
By the time the arduous game ended, Jonet and her groom had apparently gone home. Cole was not disappointed. In truth, he had been dreading the ride home by her side. But his reluctance had little to do with her probing questions and insightful gaze, and everything to do with the fact that he was deeply ashamed of his behavior on the field.
He’d struck Lord Delacourt in a fit of masculine jealousy, and that’s all there was to it. Two dozen people had doubtless seen him do it. What was worse, he had wholeheartedly wanted Delacourt to hit him back. The fact that they were in the middle of a gentleman’s sporting event had escaped him completely. In his heedless rush toward the wicket, all he had seen was Delacourt—not Delacourt leaping up to catch the ball, but Delacout bending down to caress Jonet.
But that was no excuse. Cole had behaved abominably, and the eventual return of good breeding had required him to choke back his bile and apologize as soon as the inning was over. The fact that Delacourt had merely thrown back his head in laughter, proclaimed it an accident, and cheerfully pounded him on the back did nothing to alter the fact that what he had done had been coarse and ungentlemanly in the extreme.
His blood still boiling, Cole took his horse from a waiting groundsman, unstrapped his boots, and sat down beneath a copse of trees to remove his shoes. Halfway across the empty field, Delacourt was doing the same. Catching Cole’s eye through the waning crowd, the viscount lifted his hand, grinned shamelessly, and gave Cole an almost affable wave.
Presumptuous bastard !
Did he take nothing seriously?
Suddenly, Delacourt looked uncharacteristically serious about something. His gaze still focused on Cole, but his eyes had narrowed to a glower that was pure evil. A chill ran up Cole’s spine, and suddenly, he was struck with a faint misgiving about having made an enemy of a man who could focus his gaze with such pure spite. But what the devil had he done now?
At that very moment, however, someone standing near Cole’s elbow cleared his throat delicately. Cole looked up from his boots just as his cousin Edmund’s shadow fell across him.
Edmund grinned snidely. “Cousin!” he cheerfully proclaimed, fanning a handful of banknotes between his fingers. “It seems you have brought me good luck this afternoon.”
“I certainly cannot see how,” Cole remarked darkly as he clambered up from the ground, “since we had the living hell thrashed out of us.”
Edmund showed his glittering white teeth. “Precisely my point, old boy! I had the foresight to bet on Harrow.”
Ruthlessly, Cole shoved his shoes into his saddlebag. “
Christ!
” he muttered. “I cannot believe you would wager against your own school.”
“
Tut, tut!
” cautioned Edmund. “We all saw you elbow poor Delacourt in the nose. Now you’re blaspheming! Father will be crushed to hear that his golden boy has come down to tread upon this earth with us mere mortals.”
“Oh, shut up, Edmund,” retorted Cole. “Why do you not let it go! We’re hardly schoolboys anymore. And I don’t give a bloody damn what James thinks.”
“Do you not?” Edmund folded the banknotes and restored them to his coat pocket. “Then it would appear that life with our fair cousin has brought about some sort of alteration in your personality, Cole. But then, Jonet does tend to do that to men.”
Cole gathered his reins into one fist and threw himself easily into the saddle to stare boldly down at Edmund. “At least I am not floating down the River Tick,” he retorted, “while being pursued by a gang of East End hoodlums. But let me assure you, Edmund, that if you utter one more word against Lady Mercer, you’ll find your blacklegs a damned sight more compassionate than I shall be. For I shan’t stop at maiming you. I’ll put a bullet through you.”
And with that parting shot, Cole reined his horse toward the gate. He watched a trembling, white-faced Edmund hastily depart, leaving him to feel more like seven-year-old Robert with every passing moment. He had been reduced to hitting and cursing—not to mention committing fornication and threatening murder. Was there, he grimly wondered, a commandment he
hadn’t
broken in the last two days? And he was still shaking with rage. Over Delacourt. Over Edmund. And yes, over Jonet. What the devil had that woman done to him?
Just then,
that woman
stepped from the shadows of the largest tree, her face a mask of anger mixed with satisfaction. “
Bastard!
” she hissed at Edmund as he hastened out the gate.
Swiftly, Cole dismounted and looked about. Jonet was alone. Indeed, the entire cricket ground was now empty. “Jonet, where the devil is your groom?” The words were sharper than he’d intended.
Turning to face him, Jonet regarded him with a sardonic smile. “Why, what an ill mood you are in!” she remarked, crossing her arms and relaxing against the tree trunk. “But I do thank you, Cole, for so boldly defending me against Edmund. As to my groom, he was bored. I sent him home.”
Her nonchalance further galled him. Cole dropped his reins and paced toward her. “That was imprudent, Jonet.”
Her eyes flashed, and her smile shifted to something far more knowing. “Why was it imprudent, Cole?” she softly challenged. “I am a twenty-eight-year-old widow with an already scandalous reputation. Can it simply be that you are jealous? Or afraid to be alone with me?”
He closed the distance between them. “Do not be ridiculous, Jonet,” he hissed, fighting the urge to plunge his fingers into the softness of her hair and drag her mouth ruthlessly to his. Damn it, was he now to be further tortured? Delacourt had pushed him to the edge, and Edmund had very nearly shoved him over. Could she not see that it was dangerous to press him any further?
Apparently not. Jonet laughed, a gentle, incredibly feminine sound. “Oh, Cole! My dear, it is you who is ridiculous,” she gently scolded. “And what was that bloody nose all about anyway? I vow, you and David behave as if you are little more than overgrown schoolboys.”
Cole forced his hands into fists. “Thank you, madam, for reminding me of my humiliation.”
Again, suppressed humor lit Jonet’s eyes. “Really, Cole,” she chided, “I should very much like to know what has come over you.” Her hand came up to touch his shoulder, lightly brushing away a smear of dirt in a sweetly maternal gesture. The kindness of it merely served to heighten his fury.
Harshly, Cole caught her fingers in his own. “Damn it all, Jonet—why are you dining with him tonight?” he demanded, his voice a low growl. “Just tell me how you can lie with me one night, and go to him the next!”
“Just tell me why you care!” she boldly countered, lifting her chin and staring him square in the eyes. “I dare you, Cole, to be honest with us both. I do not play games.”
Cole wanted to strangle her. By thunder, he really did. No doubt he’d intended to encircle her long, elegant neck with his fingers to make his point. But suddenly, he found himself kissing her instead. The beautiful oval of her face was captured between his filthy hands, and his rapacious mouth was driving her head hard against the tree. Rough and demanding, Cole’s tongue invaded her, forcing its way past near-bruised lips, to drive deeply and repeatedly into the heat of her mouth. He bracketed her against the bark, trapping her and urging his body stubbornly against hers until he could feel her breasts and belly and warm, sweet thighs mold to his own. Cole neither knew nor cared if Jonet was responding, so savage was his need, so deep was his hurt.
But she
was
responding. Her mouth answered his hungrily. Her breathing rapidly ratcheted up to swift, desperate pants. Soft cries caught in the back of her throat as Cole plundered her mouth. And then, Jonet’s eager fingers skimmed beneath his dusty coat to pull him closer still, and something inside Cole simply snapped. As roughly as he had begun, he stopped, jerking his trembling body from hers.
With a muttered oath, Cole lifted the back of his fist to his mouth and stepped away, dropping his gaze to the ground. Shame washed over him. “Fetch your horse, Jonet,” he ordered quietly.
Jonet seemed to falter as she followed him away from the tree. “Fetch my horse?” she repeated, her voice soft and incredulous. “Perhaps I shall, after you’ve told me what that kiss was all about.”
Slowly, Cole lifted his eyes to hers. “
That kiss
, damn it, was a lesson. I begin to tire of your willfulness, Jonet. Next time do as I say and just go home with your blasted groom.”
“
Do as you say?
” she echoed. Her teasing tone was well and truly gone.
Cole ignored her indignation. “Just saddle up, Jonet. On no account would I make you late for your dinner engagement. Lord Delacourt’s delicate soufflé might fall before you arrive.”
Hands fisting angrily at her sides, Jonet glared at him. “Why you obstinate, overbearing ass! You are so witless as to defy all logic! Moreover, you know nothing about my dinner engagement!”