Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord by Sarah MacLean Read Free Book Online Page A

shoulder and right knee throbbing in pain familiar enough not to be worrisome. It was then that he registered his position, wrapped around a warm, feminine body.
    He was curved around her, his arms having instinctively protected her head and neck from injury. He lifted his head carefully, looking down at her cradled in his embrace; her eyes squeezed shut, her lips pressed into a thin, firm line. He could feel the wild rhythm of her breathing against his chest. She had lost her bonnet in the fall, and one thick auburn curl lay across her face. He flexed one hand, moving it from where it cradled her head, and, without considering the action, brushed the hair aside.
    She opened her eyes at the touch, blinking up at him.
    Her eyes were no mere brown. They were a mosaic of honeys and golds and mahoganies magnified by a sheen of tears, the product of fear and confusion and surprise and relief.
    There was something soft and tempting about this woman.
    Then she began to struggle.
    “Sir! Remove yourself from my person!” She found use of her hands again, pounding against his chest and arms. “Immediately!” One of her blows landed just so on his wounded arm, and he winced at the pain that shot through his shoulder.
    He had been wrong. There was nothing soft about her. She was a harridan.
    “Stop.” The word stayed her movement.
    She went rigid beneath him and he was instantly, keenly aware of their position—the press of her body against his, the feel of her breasts against his chest as she struggled for deep, calming breath. The place where his thigh rested, cradled between her own, tangled in her skirts. And, suddenly, the throbbing in his knee was not nearly as distracting as the throbbing of entirely different parts of him.
    That would not do at all.
    He lifted his body from hers gently, wincing as his wounded shoulder protested the weight. He hissed at the discomfort, one side of his mouth kicking up. “I hope your letters were worth nearly killing us both.”
    Her eyes widened at the words. “Surely you are not blaming me for our current position. You attacked me!” She pressed her hands to his chest and shoved against him with all the strength she had—a surprising amount, considering their recent near-death experience.
    He raised an eyebrow at the words, but lifted off her, standing and making a show of adjusting his coat, taking a moment to consider its ruined sleeve, half torn at the elbow, before he took hold of its cuff and, with a firm tug, ripped the entire lower portion off completely.
    He turned his attention back to her, still on the ground, now seated, ramrod-straight, peering up at him from beneath a mass of escaped auburn curls, transfixed by his billowing white shirtsleeve now flapping loosely in the breeze.
    “Well, it is not as though there was any amount of mending that might have made the thing wearable again,” he pointed out, reaching the arm in question out to her.
    She leaned away slightly, as though uncertain of his motives.
    “A lesser man would take offense, you know,” he said. “Saving your life should have proven my good faith.”
    She blinked, and for a fleeting moment, he was certain that he saw something flicker in her eyes—amusement, perhaps? She reached up, accepted his hand, and stood. “You did not save my life. I was perfectly fine until you—” She winced as she tested her weight on one foot—he might not have even noticed if he had not been so fascinated by her.
    “Easy,” he said, slipping one long arm behind her. “You’ve had quite a tumble.” Their position brought their faces mere inches from each other. He lowered his voice. “Are you well? Can I help you home?”
    When she looked up, he saw the flash of awareness in her gaze. She was warming to him. It was gone before he could consider it further, shuttered away. She stepped away from his touch, removing her hand from his, a pink wash spreading across her face, incongruous with the wide smudge of dirt that