Free Angel in Scarlet by Jennifer Wilde

I’ll bet he got bored at the Hall and decided to come lookin’ for a bit of tail!”
    That was very likely, I thought. If all the stories about him were to be believed, Clinton Meredith spent the majority of his time pursuing sexual conquests. When he wasn’t prowling the gambling halls and drawing rooms in London, he was roaming the countryside on his stallion searching for a complaisant wench to assuage his appetite. Handsome as a god, imbued with potent masculine allure, he was rarely refused, rumor had it. Farm girls and the like considered it a privilege to service the dazzling heir, and women like Laura probably offered only token resistance, just enough to maintain a pretense, as she had. Clinton Meredith was one of the golden lads, rich and powerful, heir to a grand estate, spectacularly good-looking as well.
    â€œHe’s just back from London,” Eppie confided breathlessly. “There was a frightful scandal—something to do with an older woman, married to a cousin of the King! Janie Yarbro’s mother knows the sister of the cook at Greystone Hall and she gets all the gossip. Came home in disgrace, he did, just two weeks ago. They say the woman tried to kill herself, swallowed a whole bottle of some kind-a drug she’d got from an apothecary. I wonder if—Oh, Angie, he’s goin’ to stop!”
    The man on horseback pulled on the reins and slowed the stallion to a walk, eyeing us with lazy interest. He circled the square, rode past the cannon, was momentarily obscured by the frothy blossoms of the apple tree, and then he came to a halt on the road, directly in front of the bench, only a few yards of grass separating us. Eppie caught her breath and flushed a bright pink, her eyes as wide as saucers, it seemed, and though I felt my pulses racing I somehow managed to maintain my bored expression.
    â€œWhat are you girls doing?” he asked in that honeyed, melodious voice I still remembered so well.
    Neither of us replied. Eppie couldn’t have uttered a word if her life depended on it, and I didn’t deign to speak. Clinton Meredith grinned, his full pink mouth curving up at one corner. Beneath the heavy, drooping lids his gray eyes were filled with amusement … and idle speculation as well. He sat casually in the saddle, one hand holding the reins loosely, the other resting on his thigh. He wore shiny brown knee boots, snug tan breeches and a tan frock coat with deep-brown velvet lapels and cuffs. The coat was unbuttoned, revealing a pale-golden satin waistcoat embroidered with brown and tan fleurs-de-lis. Though elegant, the clothes looked as though he had been wearing them a couple of days, and his tan silk neckcloth was definitely rumpled. Somehow this made him all the more attractive, more human. I found it hard to believe a man could be so beautiful, and that he was, as beautiful as any painting and virile as a ram.
    â€œCat got your tongues?” he inquired.
    â€œAny fool could see we’re taking the sun,” I said. “We’re minding our own business. I suggest you mind yours.”
    Eppie gasped at my boldness. Clinton Meredith grinned again.
    â€œYou’re a cheeky one, aren’t you? What’s your name, wench?”
    â€œNone of your bleedin’ business, and I’m not a ‘wench.’ Why don’t you just sod off.”
    â€œHostile, too. I don’t often encounter hostility from one of the village lasses. Most of them are more than eager to be amiable to the heir of Greystone Hall. That’s who I am, you know.”
    â€œI know,” I said dryly.
    â€œYou’re not impressed?”
    â€œNot a bleedin’ bit.”
    Clinton Meredith turned his attention to Eppie, his handsome face suddenly stern. “You!” he snapped harshly. “What’s your name?”
    â€œEp—Ep—Ep-pie Dawson,” she stammered.
    â€œWhat’s hers?”
    â€œAn—Angie