The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    Oh God, dear God, she could feel every solid inch of him, his warm breath on her ear, and the blood rushing through her veins. She glanced down at the arm that held her—his hands were big and there was a curious mark on the side of his wrist, a thick black line that curved out of his cuff and in again.
    Still holding her hand, Summerfield nudged her forward and stepped with her, almost as if they were dancing.
    The big red horse lifted his head and fixed one large, unblinking eye on Phoebe. She held that beast’s gaze, her courage emboldened by Summerfield’s iron grip on her.
    The horse turned his head partially toward her and Phoebe felt a surge of excitement that shortened her breath. The horse’s nostrils flared and his eye shifted to her palm. Phoebe quickly uncovered the thing in her hand, too riveted by the horse to look at what she held. Summerfield gently nudged her forward again.
    The horse turned about fully then, eyeing them both, and with a shake of his head and a toss of his mane, he stepped forward. Summerfield’s arm tightened around her waist, pulling her more tightly to him, and Phoebe honestly didn’t know which excited her more—that this man who smelled of soap and leather and musk was holding her tightly or that the enormous, feral horse was walking toward her.
    She inadvertently shrank back when the horse reached her, but Summerfield held her steady as the beast stuck his nose in Phoebe’s palm and drew what she saw were dates between his teeth. Perhaps it was the tickle of his teeth against her palm, or the giddy feeling of being held so recklessly by Summerfield, but Phoebe had to bite back a laugh. The horse sucked the dates into his mouth, then pushed his nose against her palm again, seeking more. She struggled to keep from gasping with exhilaration, but when the horse lifted its head and put his nose to her face, she thought she would die with the laughter bottled up inside her.
    She reared back, but Summerfield stood behind her like a stone wall, holding her firmly to him with the strength of what felt like ten men as the horse’s snout passed just in front of her face, flaring and contracting, then snorting again, spraying her shoulder.
    It thrilled her beyond compare. But Summerfield obviously mistook her silent laughter for fear. He caressed her arm soothingly as he reached for the horse with the other. Unfortunately, the horse was not in the mood to be touched today, and jerked his head away from Summerfield’s hand and gracefully trotted away, past the two horses of the herd that were still grazing. The two smaller horses started after the red, and the three of them began to lope along the edge of the lake, disappearing into the mist.
    Still, Summerfield did not release her. “Please forgive my familiarity,” he said low in her ear. “I only meant to keep you from harm.” He dropped his hand from her and, regrettably, stepped away, creating a draft at Phoebe’s back as he moved in front of her.
    But he took one look at her exuberant smile, heard the small laugh of pleasure that escaped her, and suddenly smiled, too—a brilliantly warm smile of surprise that ended in a pair of dimples in his cheeks and small lines of laughter fanning out from his hazel green eyes. “I beg your pardon—when I felt you tremble, I assumed it was fear, not laughter.”
    “I am not so easily frightened,” Phoebe said with gay abandon, remembering that she was Madame Dupree. “Very little frightens me, actually,” she continued recklessly, embracing her new identity. “With the exception of Gypsies sometimes. I’m never certain if they are thieves or merely dancers. But certainly a horse does not frighten me.”
    “Oh?” he said, his smile full of amusement. “You are as fearless as that?”
    “Mmm.” She glanced around Summerfield to where the horse had stood. “He is beautiful,” she said reverently.
    “He is,” Summerfield said as his gaze curiously wandered the length of