CHAPTER SIX

Lord Stone was trying to kill her.

Why else would the devious man so casually mention his… cock … while in the middle of a perfectly respectable picnic? And, of course, her curiosity got the best of Wren, and she had to survey the evidence of his claim—noting the obviously large bulge at the juncture of his thick thighs.

Goodness! She snapped her eyes away from the titillating view.

Drake had already unsettled her with his crude comment, causing Wren to spew embarrassingly in front of their companions. She should not be distracted by the visible sign of his virality.

After all, it shouldn't be a surprise that he was so well-endowed. The man was renowned for his prowess in the bedroom—a reputation clearly earned—and she'd felt the heavy length herself during their kiss.

When it had wedged between her thighs. Rubbed against that acutely sensitive…

Enough!

Wren inwardly scolded her wayward thoughts and briskly waved her fan in front of her face, praying it erased an inconvenient blush of arousal.

"Wave any faster and you might take flight, little bird," Drake teased, tipping his chin toward the quick flicks of her fan.

"Perhaps I should and abandon you to poor decisions," she shot a brief look toward Miss Sharpe. Conversation had moved on from 14th-century poets to tomorrow's hunt, but Drake seemed more interested in his current prey— Wren —rather than Farrow's plethora of woodland creatures as his fingers slipped beneath the folds of her skirt to toy with her hand.

Swallowing a gasp, she remained still. No one noticed his illicit move from this vantage point, her billowy skirt providing the ideal veil of secrecy.

One rough fingertip traced the knuckle of her middle finger, then down the bone to her wrist, before starting again with the next knuckle, stopping only to study an old scar left over from hitting the top of her hand on the edge of a table.

"Miss Preston, will you be attending the game of whist while the men hunt?" Lady Halston asked.

"I—I'm not much of a card player." She tried shifting her hand out from under his, but Drake followed the slight adjustment, continuing the covert assault on her senses.

"All the better for I so dearly love to win!" Miss Sharpe clapped in her hands in delight then realized her error. Ladies didn't announce such cutthroat desires. They kept calm and understood competition was a man's arena. Men possessed the drive to win at all costs, including taking advantage of a weak player. "I certainly meant no offense, Miss Preston."

"None taken." Wren forced a smile, distracted by the upward trajectory of one lone finger. How far up did he plan to go? And why hadn't she worn gloves? Leather, lace—either would have dulled the effect of skin-to-skin contact.

The inside of her elbow.

That's where he stopped.

She spared a glance down to see he'd reached the limit of her skirt's hiding capabilities. Any further and his inappropriate touch would be seen.

Thank goodness for small mercies.

Drake had promised her discretion, but this neared the border of propriety. It should've dissuaded her from their liaison. They'd only shared a kiss—nothing so ruinous as giving him her maidenhead—and she'd done her duty of sitting with him during this luncheon with Miss Sharpe. An even trade. Their relationship needn't progress further.

Except…

Wren found his recklessness intoxicating. In the past hour, her emotions had spanned the gamut from amusement to annoyance to lust. She'd never felt so discombobulated. She'd never felt so alive.

And the prospect of more … More teasing… More kisses…

The temptation proved too much for Wren to resist.