her neck and to taste her. He wondered if she would taste the same as he remembered. He wondered if she would kiss the way he remembered. He imagined not. These days he was inclined to believe—or to hope for the sake of his peace of mind—that in his youthful infatuation he had imagined her to be so much more perfect than she really was. The dazzling, physical compatibility that he had thought existed between them would prove to be a product of his inexperience. A kiss was just a kiss. She would not be special and he would not lose his head over her again.
But he would give a lot to know…
As though sensing his feelings, Laura tried to hold herself away from him and put some distance between their bodies.
“Do not be alarmed,” Dexter said. “You are perfectly safe. All I mean to do is convey you home. I have no intention of ravishing you. I do not even like you.”
Laura arched her brows. “Indeed? Parts of you seem to like me well enough, Mr. Anstruther.”
“True,” Dexter said. “They always did. But then not all of me is as discerning as my mind.”
Laura gave a snort of disgust. “Then spare yourself further bodily inconvenience and permit me to walk home unaided. I do not need your help. Indeed, I had no notion that you were even visiting Fortune’s Folly.”
“Nor I you.”
“A pity,” Laura said acidly. “If only we had known we could each have chosen a different destination and spared ourselves the unpleasantness of having to meet.”
Dexter ignored her comments again, kicking open the paddock gate with one booted foot and striding across the field toward the house. A little social discomfort was the least she owed him. Anger and contempt licked through his blood again. Laura had thrown him out of the house the very morning after their passionate night together. He had begged her to run away with him and she had told him he was no more than a stupid youth. She had laughed at his suggestion, taking all that new and untried love for her that he had only just discovered and making it seem tawdry. Her words were etched in his memory:
“Did you imagine that this meant more to me than a brief and pleasant interlude? What a great deal you have to learn, Mr. Anstruther. It was but sport.…”
He had been ridiculously naive, and she an experienced woman to whom he was, no doubt, just one in a long line of liaisons and infidelities. He knew that was how many of the bored wives of the Ton passed their time, going from husband to lover as the fancy took them. But at the time he had thought Laura different and the whole business had left him feeling stupid and betrayed, and vowing never again to allow his physical passions to cloud his emotions and swamp his good judgment. He had thought himself a man of firm principles until he had met Laura Cole but now he thought bitterly that in her company his strength of character lasted just as long as it took him to take his clothes off.
Cynically, he supposed that he should actually be grateful to her. If she had not shown her true colors, if she had not discarded him with careless disdain but had taken him at his word and run away with him, he would have made an almighty mess of his life and one from which he might never have recovered his rational, calm and logical course. No indeed, he should thank Laura for turning him down so brutally and making him see that passion had no place in his life.
Laura shifted in his arms and sighed again. Dexter almost sighed himself. His body was still clamoring for satisfaction even as his mind despised her. It was a small revenge to make her so uncomfortable through his proximity and not a particularly sensible idea, but he felt she deserved it.
“You know, you really should not go out alone in a boat if you cannot swim,” he observed softly into the tumble of curls that tickled his chin.
“I can swim.” Laura wriggled crossly, which did nothing for Dexter’s concentration and a great deal for his bodily torment.
“I was brought up around here and swam in the river from the age of three,” she said. “Unfortunately I do not have an extensive wardrobe and prefer not to swim in a muslin gown.”
“How like a woman,” Dexter said. “Given a choice between jumping in the water and ruining her gown or escaping drowning, she prefers not to jump.”
Laura clenched her lower lip between her teeth. Dexter felt his body jolt. He had fantasized often enough about feeling that mouth against his own again.
“I had forgotten that you are an expert on women these days, Mr. Anstruther,” Laura said. “How fortuitous that your experience gained in bawdy houses and brothels across London has given you such an insight into the female mind. You have changed.”
“I have.” Anger flickered within Dexter again. He tried to quench it. Anger was not a proper response to this situation. It was dangerous and threatened his control in much the same way that his lust did. Laura could try to goad him as much as she wished but he would not rise to her provocation.
“I am not the same man you knew before,” he said.
“Evidently,” Laura said. “Four years can change a man.”
“Is it four years?” Dexter was not going to admit that he could tell her the precise length of their time apart in days and months, and possibly hours if he was honest. “I had forgotten.”
“Of course you had,” Laura said. He saw a faint bitter smile touch her lips. “Men always do.”
Well, no doubt she knew the truth of that with her experience. Dexter tried not to care. He wrenched open the garden gate and marched up the path.
The grounds at The Old Palace were empty and overgrown. The house seemed shuttered and still. Dexter looked around. “Where are your servants?”
Laura seemed discomfited. “I do not have a large staff. They are probably busy about the house somewhere and my daughter is out in the village with her nursery maid, so no one will be about.”
Dexter had yet to meet a duchess who had less than a regiment of servants. They seemed to think that being waited upon hand and foot was their inalienable right. But perhaps Charles Cole had left Laura without a feather to fly and no means to support her young daughter. The new duke held the title now and there was apparently no love lost between Henry Cole and his cousin’s widow, so he would not be financing her, either. At any rate, no one answered the door to Dexter’s increasingly forthright knocking.
“Oh, put me down!” Laura said, clearly losing patience and slipping from his arms before Dexter could stop her. “I can open a door for myself and I am chilled to the bone, dripping here.” She looked at him. “You are very damp, as well, Mr. Anstruther. Do you require a change of clothing? I do believe there are some old clothes of my grandfather’s somewhere about the place should you need them.”
“Thank you, your grace,” Dexter said, with a slight bow, “but I shall collect my fishing gear and walk back to the inn as I am.”
Laura looked at the pool of water that was dripping steadily from his shirt onto the slate of the path. “Surely that will cause conjecture if anyone sees you?”
“Not as much as the sight of me walking back to the Morris Clown Inn dressed in your grandfather’s Georgian fashions, I imagine,” Dexter said.
“My grandfather was quite the beau,” Laura said. “You might find that you start a new style. Not that that is likely to appeal to you, I suppose, Mr. Anstruther. Fashion is far too shallow an interest for one of your serious nature, is it not? Or have you changed in that respect, as well?”
Dexter was almost drawn into replying to that. He admitted ruefully to himself that he was finding it hard to resist Laura’s provocation. She had a way of getting under his skin unmatched by anyone else he had ever met.
She looked exquisite, he thought, standing there in damp disarray. Others overlooked Laura because her beauty was not of the obvious variety that society admired. Her appeal for him lay in the fine, direct gaze of those hazel eyes and the rich creaminess of a skin that was sprinkled