PortraitofPassion Read Online Free PDF Page A

prize.
    She could hear the beat of Hastings’ sorrel coming up close
behind her. She leaned down and offered soft words of encouragement to Lancelot
and he increased his efforts. The tree was just ahead of her but Hastings was
closing the gap, he was almost upon her. And then he was right beside her. She
looked at him from the corner of her eye. He was smiling, his blue eyes merry.
She felt the pin keeping her hat in place start to slide loose. Then it and the
hat were flying off behind her and the wind caught her hair, pulling it free of
the remaining pins holding it in place atop her head. Hastings’ mount was ahead
now, but only by a head. She leaned down farther still, so that her neck was
beside the horse’s and she whispered praise for his speed and promises of sugar
and apples if he could just give her the smallest bit more. And he did.
Lancelot gathered himself and bolted ahead to fly past the old oak tree half a
neck ahead of the sorrel.
    Bea’s laughter burst from her throat and then she added a
great yell, threw her arms up in the air and leaned her head back as Lancelot
slowed to a canter and circled the tree. Ah , it was glorious to feel so
free.
    She finally reached for the reins to bring Lancelot around
to where Hastings had stopped and sat upon his mount watching her. Bertie rode
up to join them and congratulate her.
    “By God,” Bertie said, “you sit a horse well, my girl. Puts
me in mind of your father, it does.” He leaned over and gave her hand a quick
pat.
    Bea looked past him to where Easton sat upon his black
stallion. And just as had happened the previous night, she was caught by his
gaze. He looked into her eyes and she felt trapped there, unable to look away.
His look was fierce, his brows pulled low, his lips drawn tight and thin, his
jaw clamped so hard that she could see the muscles bunch and jump. Without
conscious thought, she nudged Lancelot forward until their mounts bumped heads
and blew great puffs of air at each other.
    Lancelot whinnied and stepped to the side of the other
horse, bringing Bea that much nearer to Easton. Her knee bumped his once and
the contact brought her back to herself. She tore her gaze from him and looked
around dazedly.
    Bertie and Hastings were engaged in a boisterous
conversation that seemed centered around the fact that Bertie had helped Bea to
choose her horse.
    She looked back at the silent man before her. His face had
relaxed into a composed, assessing countenance, the smallest smile pulling at
his lips. He leaned forward to rest his crossed hands upon the pommel of his
saddle.
    “My lord?” she asked, for there seemed to be a question
waiting in his eyes.
    He continued to regard her silently.
    Bea laughed nervously as the breeze lifted a long lock of
her hair and blew it across her face, momentarily blinding her. She raised both
hands to gather the wind-whipped and tangled mass into a tail at the back of
her head. Lord Easton’s eyes dropped to her breasts, pushed up and forward by
the lift of her arms. She froze. His gaze seemed to caress her as he slowly
raised it from her breasts, to travel up her chest to her neck, to hesitate
upon her lips where the remnants of her laughter lingered, before arriving at
her eyes once more.
    Bea knew she was blushing. How ridiculous. He was certainly
not the first man to look upon her with appreciation. Lust. She knew all about
lust and passion and desire, and the ways in which people, men and women, would
injure themselves and those they loved to satisfy it.
    She had learned early how to deflect a man’s advances with
smiles and laughter. She had learned to tease him into joining her amusement
and leaving the lust behind. It had seemed the safest way, to pretend not to
see, not to understand what they wanted, to turn an amorous gentleman into a
friend with no loss of pride, no feelings of rejection.
    But this was different, this man was different. She could
feel his desire, like a living thing, reaching across