Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(28)

“That’s a pity,” Hunt said easily. “Having regrets is the only sign that you’ve done anything interesting with your life.”

“What are your regrets, then?”

“Oh, I don’t have regrets, either.” A wicked glint appeared in his dark eyes. “Not for the lack of trying, of course. I keep doing unspeakable things in the hopes that I’ll be sorry for them later. But so far…nothing.”

In spite of her inner turmoil, Annabelle couldn’t help chuckling. A long branch intersected the path, and she reached out to push it aside.

“Allow me,” Hunt said, moving to hold it back for her.

“Thank you.” She pushed by him, glancing at Kendall and the others in the distance, and suddenly felt a stinging prickle at the inner side of her foot. “Ouch!” Stopping on the path, she hitched the hem of her skirt up to investigate the source of the discomfort.

“What is it?” Hunt was beside her immediately, one large hand grasping her elbow to secure her balance.

“There is something scratchy in my shoe.”

“Let me help,” he said, sinking to his haunches and taking hold of her ankle. It was the first time a man had ever touched any part of her leg, and Annabelle went scarlet.

“Don’t touch me there,” she protested in a violent whisper, nearly losing her balance as she jerked backward. Hunt didn’t loosen his grip. To keep from toppling over, Annabelle was forced to hold on to his shoulder. “Mr. Hunt—”

“I see the problem,” he murmured. She felt him pluck at the veil of cotton stocking that covered her leg. “You’ve stepped in some prickly fern.” He held something up for her inspection—a sprig of pale, chafflike scales that had worked their way into the cotton weave over her instep.

Flooding with burning color, Annabelle maintained her stabilizing grasp on his shoulder. The surface of his shoulder was astonishingly hard, the plane of bone and resilient muscle unsoftened by any layer of padding in his coat. Her stunned mind was having difficulty accepting the fact that she was standing in the middle of the woods with Simon Hunt’s hand on her ankle.

Seeing her mortification, Hunt grinned suddenly. “There are more bits of chaff in your stocking. Shall I remove them?”

“Be quick about it,” she said in an aggrieved tone, “before Kendall turns around and sees you with your hand up my skirts.”

With a muffled laugh Hunt bent to his task, deftly picking the last of the prickly scales from her stocking. While he worked, Annabelle stared at the place on the back of his neck where the obsidian locks of hair curled slightly against firm, tanned skin.

Reaching for the discarded slipper, Hunt placed it on her foot with a flourish. “My rustic Cinderella,” he said, and rose to his feet. As his gaze passed over the blooming pink surface of her cheeks, friendly mockery flickered in his dark eyes. “Why did you wear such ridiculous shoes for a walk in the woods? I would have thought you’d have the good sense to put on a pair of ankle boots.”

“I don’t have any ankle boots,” Annabelle said, annoyed by the implication that she was some feather-wit who couldn’t select the appropriate footwear for a simple walk. “My old ones fell to pieces, and I couldn’t afford a new pair.”

Surprisingly, Hunt did not take advantage of the opportunity to mock her further. His face became impassive as he studied her for a moment. “Let’s join the others,” he said eventually. “They’ve probably discovered a variety of moss we haven’t yet seen. Or God help us, a mushroom.”

The pinching tightness eased from her chest. “I’m hoping for some lichen, myself.”

That elicited a faint smile, and he reached out to snap off a slender branch that protruded across the pathway. Following gamely, Annabelle picked up her skirts and tried not to think of how nice it would be to be sitting on the manor terrace with a tray of tea and biscuits before her. They reached the summit of a shallow incline and were greeted with a surprising vista of bluebells that blanketed the forest floor. It was like stumbling into a dream, the cerulean haze seeping between the trunks of oak and beech and ash. The smell of bluebells was everywhere, the perfumed air feeling heavy and rich in her lungs.

Pausing by a slender tree trunk, Annabelle curled her arm around it loosely and stared at the stands of bluebells with surprised pleasure. “Lovely,” she murmured, her face gleaming in the shadow cast by the canopy of ancient, interlaced branches.

“Yes.” But Hunt was looking at her, not the blue-bells, and one glance at his expression caused the blood to tingle in her veins. She had seen admiration on men’s faces before, and even something that she had recognized as desire, but never a look that had been this disturbingly intimate…as if he wanted something far more complicated than the mere use of her body.

Uneasy, she pushed away from the tree trunk and made her way to Kendall, who was talking with her mother while the group of girls had scattered to pick wanton armfuls of bluebells. Flower stems were trampled and broken as the feminine marauders gathered up their treasure.

Kendall seemed relieved by Annabelle’s approach, and even more so by the good-natured smile on her face. It seemed that he had expected her to be petulant, as most women would have been when they had been invited on a walk and then been ignored in lieu of more demanding company. His gaze alighted on Simon Hunt’s dark form, and his expression was leavened with a touch of uncertainty. The two men exchanged nods, Hunt looking self-assured, Kendall appearing somewhat wary. “I see that we’ve attracted yet more company,” Kendall murmured.