Trusting the Rogue

Excerpt From: Trusting the Rogue

Hyde Park—London, 1805

The crunch of Sir Andrew Harington’s steed’s tread on the loose gravel below and the pleasant song of the birds twittering overhead were the only sounds around him, until a child’s squeal soared through the crisp morning air. Yet it was oddly not a sound of terror, pain or suffering—merely glee. Andrew’s interest, as well as his horse’s, moved to the young boy, perhaps five years in age, who charged down the steep, grassy embankment. A broad smile stretched his chubby features as he stared at the large horse beneath Andrew in rapture.

"Sir! Please, can I pat your mount?"

Andrew chuckled to himself at the boy’s eager pleading, and nodded.

"He is the grandest horse I’ve ever seen!" The child’s eyes widened with delight as Andrew rode off the path onto the green lawns bordering the winding lane. He dismounted and came up to the head of his horse, joined by the child, who appeared to be in awe while he gazed up at Andrew’s steed, Dusk.

"He is so big, sir! My papa never rode, but Mama did when she was a girl. I cannot wait to learn. Did it take you long to learn?"

Dusk dropped his head to nuzzle the child’s jacket, no doubt looking for a treat such as Andrew’s nephews and nieces always offered. This had the boy in throes of laughter. Andrew patted the well-natured animal and could not help but smile at the boy’s obvious delight.

The child was clearly no ruffian. His finely tailored clothes and formed speech proved him to be well above the serving or even middle class. Where were his parents? Andrew frowned and looked up to see a woman hurrying towards them, concern lining her features while her attention lay fixed on the child. It took Andrew a moment to draw his eyes away from her skirts, which she lifted as she ran, exposing glimpses of her fine ankles to his curious gaze. His lips twitched in amusement. The lady would be mortified to learn that her slender ankles had attracted the attention of a man such as himself.

"Harold James! What are you doing?" the breathless woman called, her ample chest rising and falling with her hurried breath as she came upon them. Andrew would hardly have been a red-blooded male if he’d failed to notice the lush softness before him.

The boy’s shoulders slumped after a moment, and he spared Andrew an apologetic glance before facing the woman.

"Mama, this man’s horse is black like you said your horse at Eventon was. Even his hair is long and flowing like in your stories," the boy said, and pointed to the stallion’s mane in evidence. Dusk tossed his head as if in agreement, and Andrew pursed his lips to suppress a chuckle that threatened to escape—not that anyone noticed.

A little of the fight seemed to leave the boy’s mother. Her pillowy, soft-looking breasts rose, then fell with her deep sigh of what he assumed was relief at finding her child. Andrew could not help but notice how firm and large those delectable mounds were to the eye, and no doubt as appetising to a man’s palm or ravenous lips. His mouth salivated at the thought. It had been too long since he’d bedded a woman—two weeks at least. He inwardly frowned. Two weeks seemed like a lifetime while he stood before this tempting morsel. Though at that moment he had little will to pull his gaze from its current vantage, child present or not.

"Well, that may be true, but you know better than to leave me. I turned and you were gone."

The boy appeared mollified. "Sorry, Mama."

She nodded and, for the first time, her attention moved to Andrew. He reluctantly raised his eyes and resisted the urge to stand straighter and comb his hair with his fingers. What am I, a randy youth? He wanted to snort at his inner monologue. He was hardly that.

Her brow furrowed for a moment before she took another deep breath. His attention was drawn immediately back to her bust line as it perched high, thanks to her dress. The tops of her breasts lay delicately concealed behind a layer of fine lace, which he suspected was worn to tease every warm-blooded male in existence.