Emma could not quite fathom why Catherine had invited Mr. Bartholomew to join them having declared the man an utter bore not long ago. It was made worse by the very direct looks he gave her. She had not spoken to him since he had arrived at her aunt’s house on the morning of the proposal but she did not think there was any reason for him to keep eyeing her.

Morgan’s temperament had changed since the arrival of a fourth man too. In fact, all the men were sat with slightly straighter backs. They all spoke more tightly and the general aura of relaxation had given way to some odd masculine ritual of puffing out one’s chest and the clenching of fists. Why a man like Mr. Bartholomew could set these three virile-looking men on edge, Emma had little idea.

The sun continued to beat down, no doubt bringing out Emma’s freckles in full force. But at least it was not cold or raining. She needed to ignore their unexpected guest and get back to ensuring Morgan had a wonderful time.

She plucked up a cherry and handed it to him. “These are delicious. Guy had them brought up from the coast. It’s warmer there.”

“Hmm?”

“These cherries.” She waved it in front of his face to draw his attention back toward her. “Have you tried one? They are delicious.”

“Mmm very nice.” He took it and shoved it into his mouth without looking at her. His gaze remained fixed on Mr. Bartholomew while the man spoke to Amelia who was far too polite to be anything but pleasant to him.

“Is this weather not beautiful?” she tried.

“Yes, beautiful.”

“Try a meringue. Guy’s chef outdid himself.” She handed one over. He took it without comment and bit into it, sending little sprinkles of white over his bottom lip. If Emma were not so frustrated by his distraction, she might find herself imagining licking off the dusting of sugar, but as he shoved in the last of the meringue, she gave a sigh. How was the ever to make him enjoy the countryside if he was too busy posturing in front of a man of little consequence?

“Morgan?”

“Yes.” He glanced briefly at her before fixing his gaze back onto Mr. Bartholomew.

“Will you not relax?” She patted the blanket beside her. “What are picnics for if not to watch the clouds go by?”

“Yes, absolutely,” he said vaguely.

She narrowed her gaze at him. “My sisters and I frequently picnic.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“With our pet elephants. Did you know we had some?”

“How interesting.”

“And my father of course. Who is a baboon. Did you know that?”

“No. How fascinating.”

“When no one is looking, we take off all our clothes and dance around the picnic blanket naked.” She watched for his reaction.

“How fun.” His head snapped around. “Did you say naked?”

Emma laughed. “You have not been listening to a word I said.”

He did not even have the decency to look contrite. A wicked smile crossed his lips. “I definitely heard naked.”

She shook her head with exasperation. “You made a deal with me, Lord Radcliff. You said you would give the countryside a fair chance but you are not listening to a word I say.”

“Forgive me.” He swung a glance Bartholomew’s way. “I did not mean to neglect you.”

“Or my pet elephant,” she muttered.

“Elephant?”

She smiled and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Now, will you eat one of these cherries and actually pay attention? They are beautifully ripe.”

For some reason, her words made Morgan’s eyes darken. She could not say why but the look made her stays tighten. She handed over the cherry wordlessly and watched his mouth close in around it. When she peeked up from his lips, she found his gaze had remained on her.

“You have one,” he said, licking a finger then snatching one up and offering it to her.

Emma went to take it from him but he held it back and shook his head. “Not like that.”

She frowned when he put the cherry in front of her mouth. She gazed around and noted only Bartholomew looking their way. Heat flowed into her cheeks. She had a suspicion they were putting on some sort of show for him and that made her stomach turn sour.

“Take it,” Morgan insisted.

“Fine.” She moved in quickly, taking the fruit directly into her mouth from his fingers. Her lips brushed his fingertips and left a mild tingle. She swallowed down the fruit with haste and darted back.

Morgan shook his head. “Not yet. You have a little…” He put a thumb to her mouth and brushed the corner of it. His gaze remained on her lips while that one digit rubbed back and forth, sending frissons throughout every vein in her body. Her lips parted of their own accord and any observers were forgotten. That dark look lingered in Morgan’s eyes.

He took his time before removing his hand. “There,” he said. “Perfect.”

“Do I have your full attention now?” she asked, aware of a breathless quality to her voice.

“Indeed you do.”

She lay back and twisted onto her side. A sharp stab in her arm made her screech and bolt upright. Morgan was gripping her arms within moments and everyone’s attention spun toward her. An angry buzzing noise flittered past her ear.

“What’s wrong?” Morgan demanded.

“A wasp,” she explained, voice tight. The sting throbbed through her arm, making her skin feel hot and prickly. She tried to inspect it but Morgan would not release her. “A wasp,” she repeated. “I must have laid on it.”

He peered at her arm. “Yes, I can see it I think.”

“What’s happened?” Julia demanded. “Are you hurt?”

“A wasp sting,” Morgan explained.

A chorus of sympathetic noises ran through their small group. “Wretched things,” declared Catherine. “It’s normally me they sting. I have had about a dozen stings in my lifetime.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” said Amelia.

“It’s not,” Catherine protested.

Amelia waved away their sister’s argument. “What can we do?”

“Lift your arm,” Morgan ordered, taking Emma’s wrist in hand.

She did as he bid. The uncomfortable sting was beginning to make her feel a little woozy.

“I’ll suck out the worst of the sting.”

Emma opened her mouth to protest but it was too late. Morgan put his mouth to the spot just beneath her wrist bone. The warm sensation briefly made the sting worse before soothing it quickly when he began sucking on her skin. It did not, however, help with the faint feeling working its way through her limbs and head. The sight of his mouth on her skin might have been enough to make her swoon even without the wasp sting.

He pulled away and inspected the sting. “We should cool it down. Do we have any ice?”

Amelia shook her head.

“If you take her home, the cook will have some brought in from the ice house,” Guy said.

Emma shook her head. “Please don’t fuss. I do not want to spoil the picnic.”

“You look faint, Emma,” Amelia said. “I think you should return home. Do you want me to come with you?”

Emma shook her head again. “No. I am fine.”

“You’re not.” Morgan rose. “I’m taking you back to Harburgh.”

“No, please. We must stay and enjoy the picnic.”

This was terrible. Their plan to have a perfect picnic and show Morgan how lovely the countryside was being ruined by a wretched wasp. Her arm throbbed as a reminder of what one little pest had managed to do.

Morgan shook his head. “I’m taking you back to the house. Do not argue with me.”

She looked to her sisters.

Julia shrugged. “He’s right. You look awfully unwell, Emma.”

Morgan stood and near dragged her to her feet. Her head spun with the movement and she was forced to lean against him. “See? You need rest and we need to take the swelling down. Have you been stung before?”

She shook her head. She’d seen Catherine stung several times, though, and although it was clearly painful, she never nearly fainted.

“You might be having a bad reaction to the sting.” Concern was etched into his brow.

“Perhaps I should go too.” Amelia went to stand but Emma motioned for her to sit.

“I’m not ruining the day for everyone.”

“I can look after her,” Morgan promised.

“Do you need a hand, Lord Radcliff? Perhaps I could assist,” Mr. Bartholomew asked, rather too eagerly.

“No,” Morgan said tersely. “I am quite capable of looking after my wife, thank you.”

The way he said my wife made her stomach swoop in a pleasing way. Were it not for the pain in her arm, she would have enjoyed the sensation. That proprietary, possessive tone made her sound as if she were something more than an accidental wife. As if he had actually chosen her.

“Can you walk?”

She nodded and grimaced as the movement made her vision turn fuzzy.

“Take care, Emma,” said Amelia. “I will check on you before we return home.”

Morgan led her off and Emma had to concentrate fiercely on putting one foot in front of the other. She gripped his arm like an old man clutching a walking stick. Teeth gritted, she tried to ignore the sharp ache that seemed to be spreading up and down her arm. It was so unfair. All she had wanted to do was show Morgan how relaxing and pleasant a picnic could be but she had the misfortune to squish an angry wasp.

“Emma?”

She managed a vague, “Mmm?”

“You do not need to put on a brave face anymore. Your sisters will not see.”

“How do you know it’s a brave face?” she said weakly.

He chuckled and released her arm briefly. Before she could quite understand what had happened, he had swept her up into his arms.

She let out a squeak of surprise and gripped his neck. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you home.”

“You cannot carry me all the way home.”

He chuckled. “Watch me.”

“But—”

“I am not putting you down no matter how much you beg and plead. Now rest your head against my chest and get used to it. We’ve got a little way to go yet.”

Any idea of arguing quickly vanished. Especially when she did as she was told and discovered there was nothing more comforting than lying one’s head against a firm male chest. His muscles moved with each breath and she could hear the steady thud of his heart above the swishing sound of his boots through grass.

She glanced up. His gaze remained fixed determinedly on the horizon, jaw set strong. She felt tension in his muscles as he carefully balanced her weight, ensuring she barely felt a step of the journey. If she let herself, she could imagine being one of the women in Amelia’s books—one of those who was stolen away by a hero who wanted her all for himself.

She could even imagine falling in love with a man like Morgan.

Emma turned her attention back to the passing scenery. Love. That was an odd thought. Indeed, her married sisters were lucky enough to have it but it did not seem all that common in the ton, where arranged marriages were common. Her own parents had been matched before meeting and though they loved each other in their way, it was not the sort of marriage Emma had ever wanted.

Marrying Morgan had changed that, though. No matter how much she dreamed of love and heroes and stolen kisses, she was not foolish enough to believe that she would fall for the man who had fallen on her!

Or that he might love her in return.

That point, she was not so sure about. Could Morgan love her? He was so secretive still. Did he always have nightmares? Why did he dislike Berkshire so much? There was a lot to learn and she was not sure she was brave enough to quiz him yet.

Once they reached the house, Morgan took her straight upstairs and tucked her into the bed they were meant to share. A maid brought up some ice and he wrapped it in some linen and pressed it against her arm. The sudden chill made her suck in a breath.

“Does that feel better?” His gaze searched her face, a crease of concern between his brows.

She almost smiled. Of course it would be easy to love this man. Why had she not seen that? Were it not for the whole climbing out of windows farce and not sharing her bed, he would be the perfect man.

Emma nodded.

He held the ice there for several minutes. She tried not to fidget under his intense interest. The pain in her arm was fading fast, especially when he kept dropping his gaze to her lips.

Morgan drew away the ice and lifted her arm to peer at the sting. “The swelling has gone down. Is it better?”

“I think so.”

In truth, she hardly knew. All she could think of was resting against that strong chest and wondering about the muscles underneath that shirt and waistcoat, and how his fingers had touched her lips and were now touching her arm.

“I should leave you to rest.” He made no attempt to leave.

A knot gathered deep in her throat. She tried to force it down but her voice still came out creaky. “You...you could stay.”

“I could.” He remained where he was.

“I would like you to stay.” The words came out a little stronger.

Uncertainly flickered in his gaze and he eyed her. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Very.”

“Christ, Emma.”