PortraitofPassion Read Online Free PDF Page B

along with them.
    Bea smiled and laughed at the comments exchanged between
Bertie and Hastings as they recounted the more memorable moments of the race.
She was mindful of a quiet Easton following behind them. She reached one hand
behind her to massage the cramped muscles of her lower back. She imagined she
could feel his gaze, hot and hard, following the movement. She dropped her arm
to her side self-consciously. Then a mischievous urge to provoke him rose up in
her. Rarely one to avoid such urges, she exaggerated the swing of her hips. She
couldn’t be sure but she thought she heard him utter a curse, low and hard.
    She looked back over her shoulder to find him stopped cold.
He whipped his gaze up from her swaying bottom to her eyes. She laughed softly
before asking, “My lord, is there a problem? You seem to be lagging behind. Is
the walk too much for you? Perhaps you would rather ride?”
    “Come on, old man,” teased Hastings before continuing on
with Bertie.
    Bea slowed her pace until Lord Easton was beside her,
leaving Bertie and Hastings to their talk of horses and races gone by.
    “You, Miss Morgan, are trouble,” Easton said. His voice was
quiet, just above a whisper.
    “Please call me Beatrice,” she responded, peering at him
from below her lashes. “We are friends, after all.”
    “Friends?” he asked with an arch of his brow.
    “I certainly hope so,” she answered. “I am quite short of
friends in London, and even if I weren’t, I would still wish to count you my
friend.”
    “As you count Hastings your friend?” he asked.
    “You wonder about my fondness for your cousin.” She knew he
did. She had seen the way he watched her last night. That exaggerated curtsy,
that moment when she and Hastings had stood, hands clasped, smiling at one
another.
    “The thought has crossed my mind that the two of you are
quite familiar.”
    “Too familiar?” She knew the answer. She wanted to hear him
say it. She wanted to bring it out into the light, to a certain degree, of
course. She would not share all with him. But she truly wanted them to be
friends. For his father. For herself. And for him. He seemed in need of a
friend.
    “Much too familiar.” She waited but he said no more. So it
would be up to her.
    “Henry is not my lover.” She said it boldly, knowing he
would find her words and the use of Hastings’ given name shockingly improper,
perhaps even vulgar.
    His gaze shot to her face but she continued to look straight
ahead, willing herself not to blush, or laugh. From the corner of her eye she
could see the look of absolute shock that flashed across his face. He coughed,
and she couldn’t hold the laughter back any longer. But when it came, it was
softer than she would have wanted, uneven and choppy. She heard the catch in
her breathing and hoped he missed it.
    She waited impatiently for him to speak. Surely he was not
going to force her to do this alone. He must have questions. He was clearly
protective of his younger cousin.
    “I am sorry if I have shocked you,” she began.
    “No, you are not,” he interrupted. “You did it
intentionally.”
    She waited a beat before shrugging one shoulder. “Perhaps,”
she answered.
    “Why?” he asked. There was a note in his quiet voice, a note
she had not heard before. It sounded like more than curiosity. It sounded
suspiciously like confusion.
    “I don’t know,” she answered before honesty compelled her to
say, “No, that isn’t true.”
    He continued walking quietly beside her. He has the
patience of a saint , Bea thought. It was exasperating!
    “I think you are a man who needs to be shocked,” she finally
admitted.
    “I see.” He seemed to ponder her words. At least she thought
he must be pondering her words. He walked on beside her, looking straight
ahead, no discernible expression upon his handsome face. Say something ,
she felt like shrieking.
    “Oh for goodness sake!” She threw up her hands, startling
Lancelot, who bumped into her.