A half a dozen white, fluffy clouds floated lazily across an azure-blue sky. A warm breeze blew out of the west, rustling the full green leaves of the plane tree beneath which Tish had spread her blanket on the outskirts of Albemarle House’s lush formal gardens. From this vantage, it was possible to make out only occasional glimpses of the manor’s pitched slate roof and chimneys through the row of carefully tended cypresses. The Duke of Hapsborough, informally clad in a short, black riding coat and tan leather breeches that appeared rather long on wear but were pleasantly short when it came to the concealment of certain masculine attributes, reclined beside Tish as he polished off the last few bites of his cucumber sandwich. She hoped it was his last. He was a sturdy, well-built man but not an especially large one. If he continued to stuff himself full of food, he would run to fat. Unlike Nash Langston. The memory of his lean muscled body pressed against hers was almost palpable. Despite the layers and layers of clothing separating them, she’d felt every curve, plane and sinew.
