Kissing the Rake (Howertys #2)

Chapter 9: The Pond

The sun shone brightly the next day, and while Olivia was in Bridlewood again, Jessica went for another one of her long walks. With no one around, she even allowed herself the freedom of taking off her bonnet to bathe her face in the warm sunlight. Stuffing the book she'd brought with her in the bonnet, she dangled it by the ribbons from her hand. Her mood was much improved today. The ball had been a wonderful affair.

Lord Ravenscroft had turned out to be just as nice as she thought, and he seemed to feel the same way about her. In fact, he'd asked if he could call on her in the next few days. She wasn't sure about this, since it was an awkward situation with her not being at home, but didn't think the duke would mind as long as it coincided with one of Olivia's days in Bridlewood. Having the viscount call on her would provide an added benefit as well, since it should prove to Jacob that she had no thought of pursuing his father.

She frowned. Why did he always pop up in her thoughts? It was always like this. Whenever she got to know a nice man whom she might consider for marriage, she started comparing them to Jacob. And unfortunately, they always came up short. For all his faults—and there were many—he was charming and witty. While he embarrassed her half the time, she enjoyed their conversations, improper as they often were. No one made her feel alive quite like Jacob. And after he kissed her, she was painfully aware of how attracted she was to him. She'd never had that with another man. Then again, she'd never kissed another man. A few had tried, but she'd always discouraged them and avoided it. Perhaps that was her mistake. Now she had nothing to compare to. If she did, maybe Jacob's kiss wouldn't seem so... Amazing.

It was no use. She sighed. No matter how much she tried not to, her thoughts always strayed back to Jacob. She was glad he'd not been around that morning. Probably still asleep. Like most rakes, he slept until noon. Although she had to admit, she had been surprised to find him downstairs for breakfast in the early mornings more often than not during the past week.

Reaching a small pond obscured from sight by a scattering of trees, she stopped, looking around. It seemed the perfect place to read. Spreading her skirt, she sat down on the ground and leaned her back against the trunk of a tree, picking up the book she'd brought.

After reading a couple of chapters, she stopped for a moment, stealing a glance around her to make sure there was no one around. Putting the book aside, she removed her walking boots and stockings, burying her feet in the cool, fresh grass. It was a guilty pleasure of hers; she loved the feel of grass against her bare feet. Whenever she was certain there was no one around, she would walk around the gardens of Davenhall. It was rather inappropriate for a lady to walk barefoot, but as long as no one saw her, there was no harm done.

Picking up the book again, she sighed happily. This was life, sitting outside in summer enjoying a good book. London could never beat this. Why ever people would hike off to a crowded, smelly city had always been beyond her. Next year, she would have to return for the Season, at least if she wanted to find a husband. She just wasn't sure she wanted one, but she wanted children and a husband was rather essential to having any.

The sound of a horse's hooves beating the ground woke her from her reverie and she was horrified to discover a rider on his way towards the pond. Dropping her book, she hastened to arrange the skirt to hide her bare feet as the rider came close enough to see her. Oh, just my luck. Jacob looked surprised to see her, reigning in his steed a short distance away. Dismounting, he left the horse to graze and came over to her.

He cut a dashing figure dressed in a bottle-green coat, white shirt and cravat. His powerful legs were clad in a pair of buckskin breeches tucked into his riding boots. As usual, he had left the hat behind, leaving his dark hair ruffled by the wind. She clasped her hands in her lap, resisting the itch of wanting to run her fingers through that dark mass of hair.