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and left in search of Mr. Wood.

Chapter Five
    T he next afternoon, Adam leaned on the wooden handle of his mallet, wondering why in the devil he’d allowed himself to be talked out of bed at such a reprehensible hour. Noon was still early, as far as he was concerned. He should still be abed, snoring loudly, oblivious to the gaiety of his fellow houseguests.
    He let out a breath. It was just as well. He’d been too tightly wound to sleep anyway. The entire night, his thoughts had swirled around a certain golden-haired vixen to the point of obsession.
    Thinking about her, he’d brought himself to climax twice, and still it hadn’t been enough. Not nearly enough to cool the simmering heat of his arousal. He needed to be inside her; he needed to hear her sweet little moans as he brought her to the brink and beyond. Tormenting her was becoming less of a consideration.
    She stood in the center of the field, the mallet firmly in her grip. She’d already flung it halfway down the lawn once, narrowly missing Annabelle’s head. Wood had taken the opportunity to instruct her, standing behind her as he guided her next stroke.
    Adam clenched his jaw and gripped the handle of his mallet in a tight fist. Jealousy was not a feeling he often encountered. In life, he remained blissfully removed from the troublesome emotion. Women were instruments of pleasure—a diversion—and certainly not worth fits of passion, or feelings of possession.
    Except Olivia .
    She was something else entirely, a witty, intelligent, prideful creature of her own creation. And she belonged to him .
    No, not her, he corrected. Her virtue .
    It was his, unequivocally, and he’d do well to set Wood on his guard. Perhaps he’d talk to the man this evening, set some clear boundaries: Don’t talk to Olivia, ever. Don’t touch her. And do not, for any conceivable reason, glance her way.
    Wood stepped back as Olivia prepared for her next swing. She drew her mallet back and released, sending it flying halfway down the lawn. It seemed to hover in the air for several seconds before it finally came to rest at James’s feet. “Well done, Olivia,” he said, his eyes never leaving the paper in front of him.
    “Oh!” She gasped, hands cupped over her mouth.
    Wood stepped forward. “Here, take my mallet. Yours seems rather light.”
    “Not nearly as light as her skirts.” He glanced at Wood. “Or haven’t you read the newssheets?”
    A collective gasp escaped the party of onlookers, and Adam immediately regretted his words.
    Olivia straightened, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed scarlet. Instantly, guilt and shame weighed like an anvil on his chest.  
    He expected her to lash back at him, call him out for his cruelty. She didn’t. She was as silent as the tomb—which was far worse. He’d much prefer a public tongue lashing to her stunned, horrified silence.
    When she said nothing, he took a step toward her. “Olivia—”
    Before her name had even left his mouth, she’d turned on her heel and fled toward the house. Good God, what had he done?
    He glanced around. No one would look him directly in the eye—and of course they shouldn’t. He was a cad, the very worst of men to humiliate a lady in front of everyone. She could have retorted, said something biting in return—God knew she had plenty to charge him with—but she hadn’t. She’d straightened her spine, and endured his slight with the grace and dignity of a queen.
    Releasing a breath, he dropped his mallet and strode after her. She was already far ahead of him when she darted to the side and around the house. He followed, careful to keep his distance lest she see him and run.
    She finally lowered herself onto a stone bench surrounded by fragrant pink rose bushes. Gingerly, she pulled a note from her bodice and unfolded it carefully. She stared at it for long moments before a faint sob escaped her lips. Crumpling it, she threw it to the ground.
    Was it a note from Wood?
    That option didn’t sit