Free Rendezvous by Amanda Quick Page A

Arbuthnott and your friend Scruggs will be waiting for you. There is no telling what they will be thinking by now."
    Augusta smiled uncertainly as he tugged her to her feet and straightened her clothing. "There is no call for alarm, my lord. Lady Arbuthnott is a very modern sort of female, just as I am. And Scruggs is her butler. He will not say anything."
    "The hell he won't," Harry muttered as he struggled to adjust the satin roses around her bodice and pull her cloak over her shoulders. "Damn this gown. You are practically falling out of it. Allow me to tell you that one of the first things you will do after we are married is arrange for a new wardrobe."
    "Harry—"
    "Hurry, Augusta." He took her hand and hauled her over to the window. "We must get you back to Lady Arbuthnott's without further delay. The last thing I want is gossip about you."
    "Indeed, my lord." There was a hint of frost in her tone now.
    Harry ignored her irritation. He climbed through the window and reached up to help Augusta down onto the grass. She felt supple and warm in his hands and he groaned. He was still painfully aroused. He thought briefly of carrying her straight upstairs to his bedchamber rather than taking her back to Sally's. But that was quite impossible tonight.
    Soon
, he promised himself as he took her hand and led her through the gardens toward the gate. This marriage would have to take place quite soon. He would not survive this kind of torture for long.
    Good lord, what had the woman done to him?
    "Harry, if you are so concerned about gossip and if you do not believe you love me, why on earth do you wish to marry me?" Augusta wrapped her cloak securely around herself and skipped to keep up with him.
    The question surprised him. It also annoyed him, although he knew he should have been expecting it. Augusta was not the type to let a subject drop easily.
    "There are any number of sound, logical reasons," he told her brusquely as he paused at the gate to check that the lane was empty. "None of which I have time to go into tonight." Cold moonlight revealed the cobbled pavement' quite plainly. The windows of Sally's house glowed warmly at the far end of the narrow lane. There was no one in sight. "Pull your hood up over your head, Augusta."
    "Yes, my lord. We certainly would not want to risk anyone seeing me out here with you, would we?"
    He heard the prim, offended note in her voice and winced. "Forgive me for not being as romantic as you might wish, Augusta, but I am in somewhat of a hurry."
    "That is obvious."
    "You may not care about your reputation, Miss Ballinger, but I do." He concentrated on getting her safely down the lane to the back entrance of Lady Arbuthnott's garden. The gate was unlocked. Harry urged Augusta inside. He saw a shadow detach itself from the house and start forward with a crablike motion. Scruggs was still in full costume, he noted wryly.
    Harry looked down at his new fiancée. He tried to see her expression but found it impossible because her face was hidden by the hood. He was very aware of the fact that he was probably not behaving like every maiden's dream of a romantic husband.
    "Augusta?"
    "Yes, my lord?"
    "We do have an understanding, do we not? You are not going to try to cry off tomorrow, are you? Because if so, I must warn you—"
    "Heavens, no, my lord." She lifted her chin. "If you are content with the notion of marrying a frivolous female who wears her gowns cut much too low, then I expect I can tolerate a stuffy, sober-minded, unromantic scholar. At my age, I rather suspect I should be grateful for what I can get. But there is one condition, my lord."
    "What the devil is that?"
    "I must insist on a long engagement."
    "How long?" he demanded, suddenly wary.
    "A year?" She eyed him with an assessing gleam in her eye.
    "Good God. I do not intend to waste a year on this engagement, Miss Ballinger. It should take no more than three months to prepare for the wedding."
    "Six."
    "Bloody hell. Four months