Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

T he evening meal had become torturous .

Hazel had never once considered turbot in white wine sauce with capers to be so… erotic in nature. It was fish, for goodness' sake, and not even her favorite. Possibly it was the addition of the capers that gave her body a melty, gooey sensation, as if she were stuck in warm toffee.

Or it was the constant regard of the terrible Troll of Pensford.

Not terrible at kissing, that's for bloody sure.

All further attempts to picture him as the nine-year-old terror he'd once been were now impossible after having rolled about in the leaves with his cock pushed between her thighs.

August was clearly the winner of today's match.

Picking at her turbot, she rolled one of the capers to the side, all while a pair of turquoise eyes watched her from the other end of the table. When he'd kissed her today, Hazel's entire body had rioted. Her toes had curled in her slippers. There had been a moment when every thought in her mind had disappeared save for August. Had they not been interrupted, Hazel might have allowed him to raise her skirts and take her savagely against the forest floor.

A soft flutter took up residence between her thighs.

Hazel studied August discreetly, watching as his large fingers lazily traced the edge of his wine glass. He'd trailed those fingers along the lines of her body in much the same way, dipping into every valley and curve. Teasing at her nipple while cupping her breast. Such thoughts had Hazel absently pushing a caper off her plate. The blasted thing rolled across the tablecloth in the direction of Lord Balwyn.

Balwyn frowned at her.

August's lips tilted dangerously.

She pushed her thighs together, instructing that ridiculous fluttering to cease. Would this meal never end? Leaning back in her chair, Hazel attempted to compose herself and made the mistake of challenging her tormentor with a bold look.

Contrary , those delicious lips mouthed from across the table.

That bloody ache intensified, fluttering as if she had a butterfly trapped between her thighs.

Hazel's mind and body were not in accord. August should be viewed with nothing but dislike. Today's kiss had been…rather impressive. But allowing him to seduce her was out of the question. Not only because Hazel didn't like dukes, but because she did not care for August.

He gave her a wicked look before his mouth parted, tongue peeking out to lick along his bottom lip as if he were— tasting her.

A shiver trickled down the line of her back. Hazel gripped her fork tighter.

No man had ever aroused her so completely from simply a look.

And Hazel only had so much resistance at her disposal.

Horrible troll. He caused us to move to Bristol . A libertine of the highest order.

Her thighs pressed more tightly together. Dislike failed to dampen desire.

Fine.

Seduction by duke. Hazel would allow it. It was the perfect opportunity to extract vengeance for her thirteen-year-old self. Afterward, she would confess to being the dreadful Stork. August would be horrified. Humiliated.

Taking a sip from her glass, her plan firmly in place, Hazel deliberately licked a tiny bit of non-existent wine from the corner of her mouth.

A soft growl came from the other end of the table.

None of the other guests seemed to notice or care that the Duke of Courtland and Miss Dartmont were shooting each other discreet looks. They were far too busy with their own affairs.

Lady Leek was seated beside August, chattering away as she carefully speared a bit of turbot, uncaring that he paid her little heed.

Probably extolling Coraline's virtues once more. Hazel had heard them listed so many times even she could recite the girl's talents from memory.

Maria was leaning towards Balwyn, her speech punctuated by the movement of her fork, her gaze on the older lord far more interested than that of hostess for a guest. If Balwyn hadn't already been invited to Maria's bed, he soon would be.

Kent tried to enjoy the meal. Difficult, as one of Lady Pierce's girls was nearly in his lap.

Everhurst and Lady Eliza pretended not to notice they were seated across from each other. Every time the viscount lifted his gaze, she would look away.

Balwyn's daughter, Miss Smithers, glared at Garland, stabbing her fish to mush, as the earl ignored her to moon over Coraline.

And Hazel had thought Miss Smithers to only be interested in sketching. Yet another surprise today, in addition to having nearly been bedded after a shuttlecock match.

Goodness.

When the meal at last ended, Maria rose from her seat and, with a wave, directed her guests into the drawing room for the evening's entertainments. A table had been set up for cards. Another for draughts. Charades would commence in a moment.

Hazel sat at the table for draughts.

Maria moved about the room, prattling on about the planned excursion to Appleton the following day as any good hostess should. There was to be a carriage ride into the village, followed by a scenic walk along the cliffs, which boasted spectacular scenic views of the ocean, after which, the group would converge upon the Painted Speck, a local tavern, for refreshments.

The entire affair sounded completely awful to Hazel. She might be stuck in a carriage with Lady Leek. Or worse, be forced to walk along the cliffs in the woman's company, which would spoil the scenery. Maria would understand if Hazel declined.

August watched her from across the room as she idly moved the pieces around the checkerboard before her. His regard had her pulse jumping about, but he did not approach. She was relieved to see Everhurst slide into the chair across from her.

"Draughts, my lord?"

"I suppose I must," he answered. "I detest charades, and I'm not in the mood for cards. I'm not overly fond of draughts either, but I accept your challenge, Miss Dartmont."

"Are you still put out that I beat you in shuttlecock?" Hazel grinned at him.

"I thought we agreed our match was a draw." Everhurst gave her a knowing smile. "As was yours with Courtland."

"Not true. Courtland cheated. Thus, I declared myself the winner."

"Bold, Miss Dartmont." Everhurst sat back.

She shrugged. "He's a duke and should know better."

"Of course he cheated," Garland drawled from behind her, breath smelling of brandy. "What did you expect, challenging the duke to shuttlecock?" He nodded to Everhurst in greeting. "I thought you had more sense than that."

"Oh, I didn't challenge him." Hazel captured one of Everhurst's pieces, delighting when he scowled at her. "The duke demanded satisfaction for me having wounded him most grievously with a shuttlecock upon his arrival."

"The only time he's been wounded, I'll warrant." Garland held up a glass of brandy, draining half before speaking once more. "Trots about claiming he's a war hero. Injured defending the honor of England." Garland made a face.

"I haven't heard him once mention such a thing," Everhurst said in a mild tone.

"I doubt he ever saw battle," Garland continued. "Let alone the Continent. Despicable libertine."

Everhurst's fingers paused in moving a draught across the board.

"Courtland probably can't even wield a sword." Bitterness and envy coated Garland's words. "I suspect he sat in the safety of his tent during his sojourn on the Continent while others fought." Garland leaned forward. "Miss Dartmont and I discussed such at length last evening. She shares my opinion."

"I—" Hazel looked between the two of them, not pleased Garland had put words in her mouth. "Lord Garland brought some things to my attention I had not previously known. I hadn't realized the duke was an officer, for instance."

Everhurst regarded her for a moment. "What you must think of us all, Miss Dartmont." He deftly took one of her pieces.

"Prancing about in his uniform," Garland rambled on, clearly foxed. "Luring in young ladies with his tales of heroism. Poor Lady Coraline doesn't stand a chance against such?—"

"Shut up," Everhurst said in a deceptively soft tone. "This instant."

"I beg your pardon," Garland sputtered, brows drawn together.

"I said shut up. You will not speak ill of the duke. Not in my presence." Everhurst glanced at Hazel, his disappointment clear. "Allow me to correct your assumptions, my lord. And yours, Miss Dartmont. Courtland was nearly decapitated by the enemy while trying to discern their movement along a stretch of trees, a wound which I believe would count as more than a scratch . And before you ask, he volunteered for the task. Strange to you, I'm sure, since there weren't any women for him to seduce that close to enemy lines. After his horse was shot out from beneath him, Courtland then crawled, bleeding, across the grass to warn the men under his command that cannons were going to be launched from behind us." Everhurst turned to look at Hazel.

Hazel looked down at the draughts board, too ashamed to look Everhurst in the eye. She worked tirelessly for wounded soldiers and their families. Championed every veteran. She respected their sacrifices. The defense of England. August was one of those soldiers, and Hazel had maligned him.

"How would you know, Everhurst?" Garland spit out.

"Because I served with him," the viscount shot back. "The despicable libertine , as you call him, saved my life. Pulling me and several others from the wreckage when the mortar hit." Everhurst stood. "He didn't crawl fast enough to warn us, you see. Possibly if he had pranced ."

The blood left Hazel's cheeks.

"Quatre Bras," Everhurst stood. "Are you familiar, Garland?"

"I am not."

"Then you've no leave to make such statements, considering you've never worn a uniform."

Garland's face turned a mottled shade of red. "I have a condition?—"

"You may dislike Courtland for being a duke." Everhurst kept his tone mild. "Or an unapologetic libertine ." He glanced at Hazel again. "But do not ever disparage the courage Courtland showed in battle. I am alive because of it. By the way, Courtland wields a sword with brutal efficiency. Pistols as well. I doubt you do. Something to consider if you continue to insult him."

Garland wisely stayed silent.

Everhurst bowed. "Good evening, Miss Dartmont. I am forced to forfeit our game of draughts as I no longer have any interest in playing. Perhaps I require a breath of fresh air." He marched away, each step angry, and grabbed a glass of wine from a passing servant before disappearing out the terrace doors.

"Well." Garland cleared his throat. "I believe I'll find another brandy." He slunk away like a whipped dog.

Hazel clasped her hands, allowing them to twist about in her lap. She studied the checkerboard but didn't really see the pieces before her. August had been at Quatre Bras. A bloody, terrible battle. She'd read the accounts. He'd almost died there. And Hazel had accused him of strutting about in his uniform to capture the attention of females. Of not knowing what it meant to sacrifice.

She inhaled and blew out a slow breath.

Coming to her feet, a bit unsteadily, Hazel decided Everhurst had the right idea. A bit of air was warranted. At the very least, it might help wash away the shame she felt.

Stork didn't look happy.

Everhurst—August frowned at the ridiculous spill of jealousy over the viscount's attention to her—had marched off, clearly disconcerted about something. Though that could be the fault of that idiot Garland, who enjoyed his brandy far too much. His drunken ramblings had become the bane of the house party.

August had studied Hazel all through dinner this evening, unable to keep his eyes from her. She'd been late to the dining room table, rushing in with a laughing apology. Delightfully ruffled. A bit of pink on her lightly tanned cheeks.

Hazel made him ache in the most delicious way possible.

The freckled termagant he'd once known was long gone; her youthful awkwardness had morphed into long-limbed elegance. But something inside August had stirred at his first glimpse of Miss Hazel Dartmont, parts of him recognizing Hazel even if his mind did not.

August felt…connected to her. And now it made sense why.

He watched as Stork came to her feet and headed in the direction of the terrace. She looked distracted. Distressed. He wondered if she and Everhurst had had a disagreement. Or more likely, Garland had said something to upset her.

August had a duty to Windhaven. To the title. To all the people who depended on him at the estate. He had to wed. There was little choice.

But watching Stork, he realized the idea no longer bothered him.

Setting down the glass of brandy in his hand, he made his way to the terrace doors.