Richard, Earl of Winchester, groaned. Heaven save him, for lust had addled his wits. Contrarily, if he’d read similar thoughts on the face of any drooling young pup, he’d have leapt across the pews and planted him a facer. Embarrassed himself, and Lady Laura Jamison, with his possessiveness. The gossips would squeal with delight to see him break his own rules and behave like an obsessed suitor.
Far better that onlookers saw the relationship between him and Laura as sparring siblings because, in private, his indifference was becoming harder and harder to maintain. More so, when Laura studied him surreptitiously, or so she thought, and compared him to other men. When she recorded his suitability as her mate as part of her quest to ensure the survival of the human species. Blast the woman and her speculating eyes, because no matter how sexually innocent her assessments of his anatomy might be, his body leapt to readiness faster than any seasoned street walker lifted her skirts.
And damn his randy thoughts for creating so many pictures of them cavorting in his bed. In that arena, if nowhere else, he was certain their passionate natures would prove a perfect match. He clenched his fist at the thought of giving up something else. The intelligent and strong children their couplings would produce. Because if he had Laura’s body under him once, he’d be old and wizened before he tired of her.
