Before the boy could go in pursuit of it, the ball was tossed back to the pitcher by some unseen source. Lillian was perplexed as she saw Arthur’s face suddenly blanch to a shade of white that contrasted starkly with the fiery locks of his hair. Wondering what could have put such a look on his face, Lillian turned to glance behind her. The catcher seemed to have stopped breathing as he too beheld the visitor.

For there, leaning casually against the paddock fence, was none other than Marcus, Lord Westcliff.

CHAPTER 3

Cursing silently, Lillian gave Westcliff a sullen stare. He responded with a sardonic lift of one brow. Although he was clad in a tweed riding coat, his shirt was open at the throat, revealing the strong, sun-browned line of his neck. During their previous encounters, West-cliff had always been impeccably dressed and perfectly groomed. At the moment, however, his thick black hair was wind-tousled, and he was rather in need of a shave. Strangely, the sight of him like this sent a pleasant shiver through Lillian’s insides and imparted an unfamiliar weakness to her knees.

Regardless of her dislike, Lillian had to acknowledge that Westcliff was an extremely attractive man. His features were too broad in some places, too sharp in others, but there was a rugged poetry in the structure of his face that made classical handsomeness seem utterly irrelevant. Few men possessed such deeply ingrained virility, a force of character that was too powerful to overlook. He was not only comfortable in his position of authority, he was obviously unable to function in any capacity other than as a leader. As a girl who had always been inclined to throw an egg in the face of authority, Lillian found Westcliff to be an unholy temptation. There had been few moments as satisfying as those when she had managed to annoy him beyond his ability to bear.

Westcliff’s assessing gaze slid from her tumbled hair to the uncorseted lines of her figure, not missing the unbound shapes of her br**sts. Wondering if he was going to give her a public dressing-down for daring to play rounders with a group of stable boys, Lillian returned his evaluating gaze with one of her own. She tried to look scornful, but that wasn’t easy when the sight of Westcliff’s lean, athletic body had brought another unnerving quiver to the pit of her stomach. Daisy had been right—it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find a younger man who could rival Westcliff’s virile strength.

Still holding Lillian’s gaze, Westcliff pushed slowly away from the paddock fence and approached.

Tensing, Lillian held her ground. She was tall for a woman, which made them nearly of a height, but West-cliff still had a good three inches on her, and he outweighed her by at least five stone. Her nerves tingled with awareness as she stared into his eyes, which were a shade of brown so intense that they appeared to be black.

His voice was deep, textured like gravel wrapped in velvet. “You should tuck your elbows in.”

Having expected criticism, Lillian was caught off-guard. “What?”

The earl’s thick lashes lowered slightly as he glanced down at the bat that was gripped in her right hand. “Tuck your elbows in. You’ll have more control over the bat if you decrease the arc of the swing.”

Lillian scowled. “Is there any subject that you’re not an expert on?”

A glint of amusement appeared in the earl’s dark eyes. He appeared to consider the question thoughtfully. “I can’t whistle,” he finally said. “And my aim with a trebuchet is poor. Other than that…” The earl lifted his hands in a helpless gesture, as if he was at a loss to come up with another activity at which he was less than proficient.

“What’s a trebuchet?” Lillian asked. “And what do you mean, you can’t whistle? Everyone can whistle.”

Westcliff formed his lips into a perfectly round pucker and let out a soundless puff of air. They were standing so close that Lillian felt the soft touch of his breath against her forehead, stirring a few silken filaments of hair that had adhered to her damp skin. She blinked in surprise, her gaze falling to his mouth, and then to the open neck of his shirt, where his bronzed skin looked smooth and very warm.

“See? …Nothing. I’ve tried for years.”

Bemused, Lillian thought of advising him to blow harder, and to press the tip of his tongue against the bottom row of his teeth…but somehow the thought of uttering a sentence with the word “tongue” in it to Westcliff seemed impossible. Instead she stared at him blankly and jumped a little as he reached out to her shoulders and turned her gently to face Arthur. The boy was standing several yards away with the forgotten rounders ball in his hand, watching the earl with an expression of awe mingled with dread.

Wondering if Westcliff was going to reprimand the boys for allowing her and Daisy to play, Lillian said uneasily, “Arthur and the others—it wasn’t their fault—I made them let us into the game—”

“I don’t doubt it,” the earl said over her shoulder. “You probably gave them no chance to refuse.”

“You’re not going to punish them?”

“For playing rounders on their off-time? Hardly.” Removing his coat, Westcliff tossed it to the ground. He turned to the catcher, who was hovering nearby, and said, “Jim, be a good lad and help field a few balls.”

“Yes, milord!” The boy ran in a flash to the empty space on the west side of the green beyond the sanctuary posts.

“What are you doing?” Lillian asked as Westcliff stood behind her.

“I’m correcting your swing,” came his even reply. “Lift the bat, Miss Bowman.”