She gasped and lifted eyes that were darkened by desire and shock.
Christ.
A trotting horse broke the spell weaving around them. A good thing, for she had been close to climbing onto his lap and urging his lips to hers. Payton drew away from the temptation of Mikhail and looked for the intruder.
Lord Jensen broke through the small thicket.
Anger, quick and sharp, surged through her. She stood and took an involuntary step in his direction before faltering.
What is he doing at Sherring Cross?
A pleased smile broke across his face when he recognized her. With his golden blond locks, gray eyes, and wide smile, Lord Jensen was accounted as one of the most affable, charming young gentlemen of the haute monde. His countenance quickly darkened with disapproval when he noticed Mikhail and the glasses and bottle on the stone table.
“Payton, I would speak with you,” Lord Jensen said, his voice clipped and angry.
She flushed at his lack of manners. A quick glance at Mikhail showed an expression of boredom, all traces of sensuality buried.
“Lord Jensen, may I introduce you to Mr. Mikhail Konstantinovich.”
Mikhail stood and nodded in acknowledgment, and embarrassment flushed through her when Lord Jensen ignored him.
“Gather your horse and come. I will ride with you back to the estate.”
“You have no cause to be so rude, my lord,” she snapped.
“And I have no patience with your defense of this…” He seemed to gather himself. “I traveled nonstop to reach Sherring Cross once I received your father’s reply to my request. I saw you race away without an ounce of decorum upon my arrival. I lost precious minutes readying a horse to come after you.”
She glared at him. What request had he sent her father? A hollow sensation formed in Payton’s stomach. “I did not ask for your interference, and you have no cause to ride after me. You, my lord, are not my keeper.”
Anger darkened Lord Jensen’s mien, and he dismounted, striding to her swiftly. “Do you understand the precarious position you placed your reputation in with your reckless little racing adventure? As your—” He broke off, his eyes narrowing on her lips. “Has this bounder kissed you?”
Payton stiffened in outrage. “My lord, you have overstepped your bounds.”
“I know how your lips appear when they have been well kissed, for I have tasted from them enough times to know,” Lord Jensen growled, anger mottling his face.
Mikhail subtly tensed.
Her heart pounded, and mortification twisted in her. Lord Jensen’s words made it appear as if she were a wanton who traded kisses with any man to pay attention to her.
“I…” Tears pricked behind her lids, and he reached for her.
“Do not touch her.” Though spoken softly, Mikhail’s words were infused with cold command, freezing Lord Jensen.
Payton did not wait to observe his reaction to Mikhail’s order. “Excuse me,” she snapped, and raced past Lord Jensen to her horse.
“Do not presume to tell me I cannot touch my fiancée,” Lord Jensen hissed.
Payton stumbled. Fiancée?
Gripping the reins of her horse, she faced him, her heart thundering in her ears. He was here because her father sent for him.
No. Her father wouldn’t. He had always been her ally in the war with her mother and aunt. She glanced at Mikhail. He stood with his feet braced apart, his hands thrust deep into his pockets his eyes remote and carefully masked.
Call on me. She mouthed the words, and tenderness pierced her when a slow smile curved his lips.
Mikhail strolled over, gripped her hips, and helped seat her on Aeton.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and rode away ignoring Lord Jensen’s shout for her to wait for his escort.
She prayed his presence did not mean what she feared, but somehow she knew it did, and the battle she had planned for independence seemed as if it had arrived far sooner than she anticipated.
Chapter Nine
Payton sequestered herself in her room for the rest of the afternoon. She had even declined to luncheon with the rest of the guests, furiously writing down all the reasons she wanted to choose her own husband. Her mother would ignore them, but her father would at least lend a listening ear. Or so she hoped.
Aunt Florence had barged into Payton’s chamber earlier, a whirlwind of excitement, and informed her Lord Jensen St. John was in the smaller parlor. Knowledge of what awaited settled in her stomach like bad ale; he was the last man she wanted an audience with today.
A luncheon tray had been sent to her room, and she had kept him waiting while she ate. After much haranguing from her mother, Payton dressed in a simple lime green day gown, caught her hair in a loose chignon without the aid of a maid, and slipped her feet into walking slippers.