Regency Surrender: Sinful Conquests. Louise Allen

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       Chapter Six

      Despite herself, Tamsyn laughed. ‘Ridiculous? No. It is brilliant and I am just amazed that I am such a ninnyhammer that I did not think of it for myself. It is precisely the kind of thing that Franklin would think of—that there must be treasure and therefore a chance to grab it for himself.’

      ‘Then I suggest we search, locate the hoard and thwart Chelford.’ The thought of hunting for buried treasure seemed to appeal to Cris.

      All men are such boys, even the most impressive specimens. ‘Unfortunately, whatever fantasies Franklin might have, I do not believe there is any treasure to be found. The idea that he would think it exists is a good one, but I suspect Jory would have done something truly infuriating with his profits, like putting it in a bank in Exeter under a false name and then forgetting to tell me.’

      ‘Are you certain there is not?’ Cris’s question had a hopeful note to it.

      Yes, he is definitely disappointed. ‘There are no secret caves or tunnels. Or, rather, none that I or the villagers don’t know about. And Jory had more sense than to bury money in the churchyard in a nice fresh grave or any of the other tricks. He would want it earning interest and to be safe, not where someone might stumble across it.’

      ‘A nice fresh grave?’ Cris sounded incredulous. ‘You shock me.’

      ‘It is the best way to hide newly turned earth, of course. You wait for someone in the village to be buried, come along that night and do the reverse of grave robbing.’ The question was in his eyes and she thought of teasing him some more, but relented. ‘And, no, I have never taken part in such a thing. I have more respect for my fellow parishioners, although I suspect none of them would be very surprised or distressed if it happened.’ He still looked unconvinced. ‘It is difficult for city dwellers to shake off their preconceptions about us rustics who live on the very edge of the country. We are not neatly divided into dyed-in-the-wool rogues and happy pastoral innocents.’

      ‘No, I suspect you are all rather more complex than that.’ He watched her from beneath lowered lids, an unsettling appraisal that made her feel anything but complicated.

      ‘I must go.’ It was far too comfortable sitting here in the sunshine exchanging ideas, teasing and being teased. Tamsyn stood up and Cris followed her. ‘I must see Willie Tremayne and make certain the remainder of the flock are safe.’

      ‘Of course.’ He made no move to detain her. But why should he? That moment when he had held her so close as she slid from the saddle and she had thought he was about to kiss her had been nothing more than her imagination. Just because he had kissed her once was no reason to suppose he had any desire to do it again.

      ‘Let me give you a leg up.’

      ‘No need.’ She was on the log, and from there to the saddle, as she spoke, chiding herself as she did it.

      You have no idea how to flirt, do you? You should have let him help you mount, let his hands linger on your foot or perhaps your ankle. You should have thanked him prettily, as a lady should, not gone scrambling on to Foxy like a tomboy.

      ‘I will see you at luncheon, perhaps.’ She waved her free hand as she urged the horse into a canter along the path that led to the clifftop pastures and did not look back.

      When she knew she was out of sight she slowed, reined Foxy back to a walk, which was quite fast enough on the rabbit-burrowed turf, and turned her face into the breeze to cool the colour that she guessed was staining her cheeks. Cris Defoe had done nothing at all, other than look at her with warmth in his eyes and hold her a little too close when she dismounted, and yet she was all aflutter and expecting more. A great deal more.

      She had no excuse, she told herself as she reached the stone and turf bank and turned along it towards the gate. Nor was there any reason not to be honest with herself. For the first time since Jory had died she had been jolted out of her hard-working, pleasant routine by a man. A handsome—oh, very well, beautiful—man. A man of sophistication and education. Someone who could discuss more than the price of herring and the demand for beef cattle in Barnstaple.

      He had kissed her in the sea and now she had woken up from her trance, a rather soggy Sleeping Beauty. Not much of a beauty... But I want him. To be exact, and to look the thing squarely in the face, she wanted to go to bed with him, get her hands on that lean body, make love with him. She should be shocked with herself, she supposed. But weren’t widows allowed more freedom? Couldn’t she be a little daring, a trifle dashing? ‘I’m my own mistress,’ she informed Foxy, who politely swivelled an ear back to listen. ‘And I would rather like to be Cris Defoe’s mistress, just for a while.’

      He was a man who knew about these things, she was sure. Elegant, sophisticated widows probably indicated their availability to him on a daily basis when he was not stuck in the wilds of Devon. And there was the rub. Sophisticated. Tamsyn hooked the latch with her riding crop and let Foxy push the gate open, then reined back to hook it closed again. She could attend the local assemblies at Barnstaple or Bideford looking perfectly respectable and well dressed. She would receive a gratifying number of requests for dances, she was never short of a supper partner, but none of those gentlemen had one-tenth of the poise or finish that Cris Defoe possessed. And while she entertained with confidence and knew she had nothing to be ashamed of in her education or her manners, her social skills had never been tested in a London drawing room.

      Which was not really the problem, Tamsyn told herself as she urged Foxy into a canter across the level ground of the headland. Put her in a drawing room with a duchess and she was sure courtesy and imagination would see her through. But how did one go about indicating one’s availability to a man, other than by coming right out and stating one’s desires? Or dressing immodestly?

      She’d had to do neither with Jory. One day she had bumped into him as she came running across the meadow, late for tea because of a difficult encounter with Franklin. They had clung together, breathless. He had been laughing until he saw the tears she was fighting not to show. They had been old friends, comfortable together. And then their eyes had met and the laughter in his had died, and the comfort was replaced by something that was not at all cosy or familiar, and the next thing his mouth was on hers and...

      ‘Mizz Tamsyn!’ It was Willie, hailing her from the far gate, his battered old hat pushed far back so his weathered face was clear to see. He looked grim, but he raised a smile for her as she СКАЧАТЬ