“Peaches” was putting her clothes back on! And he was late. Delacourt would gladly take Waldron’s place with this little fille de joie.
When she jiggled her peaches into place and reached for her stockings, his mouth went dry, his breath caught, and the roar of the Newmarket racetrack faded into sensual oblivion. Balanced precariously atop an upturned feedbox, the viscount watched in fascination as the woman slithered back into her cotton shift with a motion so sinuous it sobered him. Still, this one did look like a handful-and in more ways than one. He had yet to meet the kitten that wouldn’t purr for him. “Ah, like that, is it?” Delacourt had responded, but with little concern. “She’s a rowdy piece! A pretty cat with pretty claws likes a little tussle.” “Just remember, old boy,” Waldron had cautioned with a knowing wink. He had a luscious little armful cooling her heels in the stables, he’d glibly explained, but Waldron had decided Lady Luck was too hot to abandon.īored and bad-tempered, the viscount had decided to take a peek. His lips had quirked into a wry grin, and at once he’d turned to Delacourt to extend his generous offer.
Then in the fifth, Sands’ Setting Star had come in first with twelve-to-one odds while David’s horse had brought up the rear, draining his carefully allotted racing purse along with their last bottle of decent brandy.īut Waldron had watched Setting Star fly over the finish line with a frustrated devilment in his eye. The first four races had been both uneventful and unprofitable. And until now, it had been a dull day at Newmarket. Nonetheless, this woman-with her bare breasts and her pile of flame-gold hair-was far too fine to leave unattended. The jaded and discriminating viscount preferred a different sort of woman altogether, one who took no one’s shilling but his and slaked no one’s need but his. Initially, he’d not been at all sure that he wanted to take a tumble inside a dusty horse stall with a local strumpet, especially not one of another man’s choosing. Rather shocking, that-both his lust and old Wally Waldron’s taste in women. Bathed in gold and brushed with pink by a shaft of late-day sun which streamed almost celestially through the open barn loft, her high, perfectly sculpted orbs bounced and glimmered as she moved, tempting a man’s mouth to unrepentant sin.Īs he leaned precariously forward to better peer over the door, the peaches bounced yet again, and Delacourt found himself unexpectedly eager to be led astray. And she had breasts like plump summer peaches. Lord Delacourt thought he’d finally found her.
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