An Illicit Indiscretion. Bronwyn Scott

that it was dark and winter. There wouldn’t be anything to see that one usually expected to see in a garden, like plants.

      Dashiell didn’t care if the garden turned out to be weed-choked. He only cared that it was an escape. It didn’t have to be an especially pretty escape at that. He’d only come tonight because his uncle had demanded it. In fact, his uncle had demanded quite a lot in the last few months since Dashiell had become his heir. Dashiell was tired of it and the hypocrisy that followed.

      Six months ago, matchmaking mamas hadn’t exactly lined their daughters up to dance with him. His good looks and lack of personal fortune made him persona non grata in that department. Mamas were fearful he’d charm their daughters right into genteel poverty with him. Everyone knew his father was a second son with a mid-rate military career behind him. But then his uncle had come along; heirless after twenty years of marriage, approaching sixty and finally facing facts. He suddenly had need of his nephew. Enough said.

      Apparently the prospect of inheriting an earldom guaranteed a man a full dance card and respectability, while erasing a past littered with actresses and opera singers. It also guaranteed a life full of stolid dinner parties that threatened to stifle him. The price of respectability was uncommonly high.

      The debacle going on inside Viscount Graybourne’s drawing room right this very moment was a case in point. No, ‘debacle’ wasn’t the right descriptor. It was a farce, a comedy of errors, or in his case, a comedy of heirs. His uncle had an heir to marry off in exchange for a dowry that would cover the earldom’s debt. Graybourne had a daughter who’d been on the marriage mart for four Seasons without success.

      Dashiell had shown up to do his duty. The daughter hadn’t. At least not by the time Dashiell had left the room, although Lady Graybourne had assured him endlessly her daughter was looking forward to meeting him.

      Dashiell tipped his head back and halted in mid-stretch. Unbelievable.

      Either he’d already lost his mind or he might have to rethink the whole ‘nothing to see in a winter garden’ position because clearly there was something to see. Someone was climbing out the window of Graybourne’s town house.

      Not just someone, but a female someone. He was something of a connoisseur of derrieres, which happened to be the only two French words he could manage to string together, and there was no possibility that particular piece of anatomy coming down the trellis belonged to a man.

      For the first time that evening, he could feel the hints of a smile flirting on the edges of his mouth. A woman who climbed out windows dressed in trousers carried a powerful allure. There were only so many reasons people climbed out of windows. In his experience, honourable intentions weren’t one of them.

      It did beg the question who was she? Realistically she might be a light skirt sneaking out after satisfying the Graybourne heir’s woman-in-breeches-fantasy, assuming he had one. In a more exotic context, she might be a pretty thief making off with the Graybourne jewels. The question was worth contemplating for its titillating intrigue alone. It was a sign of how staid his life had become in the past months that he was expending energy over the question at all.

      Whoever she was, she was in a bit of trouble. Dashiell watched her foot hover in the air searching for purchase. She wasn’t sure how far from the ground she was and the trellis had run out. She was up high enough to twist an ankle on landing. It was time to step in.

      ‘Excuse me, miss, might I be of assistance?’

      Perhaps it was the surprise of hearing an unexpected voice that caused the accident. Perhaps she’d already decided to drop anyway. Whatever the reason, his mysterious miss lost her grip and fell right on top of him, taking them both to the ground in a highly provocative and, may he add, accurate representation of his favorite position for intercourse: woman-on-top.

      Chapter Two

      ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ The glorious woman on top of him hissed in whispered outrage. The spill of light from the upper window showed her to advantage, all curves and golden hair in her anger.

      Dashiell chuckled at her misplaced chagrin. ‘What am I doing? You’re the one climbing out windows.’ Not to mention sitting astride a strange man. He was rather surprised she hadn’t moved yet. Instead she clapped a hand over his mouth, her breasts rather erotically teasing his chest as she leaned forward. Oh, this was quite promising indeed. In spite of the cold earth at his back, Dashiell could feel the beginnings of an arousal coming to life.

      ‘Hush! Keep your voice down. Do you want everyone to hear you?’ Her gaze anxiously quartered the garden for any sign they’d been heard.

      Her nerves were an affirmation of sorts. She wasn’t quite innocent if she worried over discovery. Good. Innocent girls were not nearly as fun. He didn’t want her innocent. He just wanted her. His body was making that very clear at the moment.

      She removed her hand and stood up, brushing her hands on her trousers. ‘It’s safe. No one heard you.’ Then she did something no gently bred young woman had done for the past six months, and quite frankly no woman had done since he was sixteen—she walked away. She flat out ignored him.

      She strode to the base of a tree and bent over to retrieve something she’d apparently left. He followed her. He’d not been wrong about her derriere. Nor had he been wrong about her motives. Whatever they were, they were premeditated and that spoke of trouble.

      ‘That’s it? You’re just going to leave?’ Dashiell leaned against the tree, casually blocking her exit. She’d have to deliberately step around him.

      ‘Yes. Were you expecting something else?’

      ‘How about thank you? I did save you from a potentially injurious fall, one that could have prevented you from leaving altogether.’

      ‘Saved me? Hah!’ She gave a magnificent toss of her hair. You caused it. I wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t startled me. I had decided to drop but then you called out and I dropped a bit prematurely.’

      She tried to move past him towards the back gate. But Dashiell wasn’t ready to let her go. He was having far too much fun and this adventurous miss wasn’t nearly as annoyed as she pretended to be.

      ‘Where are you going?’

      ‘It’s none of your business really. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’ She slung the retrieved satchel over one shoulder and tried again to pass. This time Dashiell let her, falling into step beside her. He had no intentions of letting her go that easily. Intriguing women were a rare commodity given his current circumstances.

      ‘Are you walking? If you are, might I offer you a ride? My coach is parked on the street.’ It was an impulsive offer. She might be a dangerous criminal, although he doubted it. She didn’t seem the type but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a petty thief. To be honest, all signs did point in that direction. Giving her a ride could make him an accomplice.

      Dashiell shrugged off the risk. He was Heathridge’s heir for goodness’ sake. No one was going to accuse him of anything. As for her, he couldn’t say. She might be accused of plenty. He knew nothing about her. But wasn’t that the point? If he knew, he wouldn’t be offering.

      His little thief stretched up and struggled to reach the latch. Dashiell reached over her and slipped the latch with ease, catching the scent of lavender on her skin. His little thief was clean and somewhat unpracticed. Not being able to reach the latch could have been potentially dangerous if she’d been chased. Surely a thief who premeditated leaving satchels in yards would have given more thought to her escape route.

      ‘You don’t know where I am going.’ She countered with another saucy toss of her head when he followed her through the gate. He’d wager those glossy tresses would be the shade of butter-cream in full-light. He felt his groin tighten at the prospect of those golden waves spread across a pillow.

      ‘Destination doesn’t matter. It’s either go with you or go back in there.’ It was a quickly derived conclusion based on the acquaintance of moments but it was