“Your wife wrote a novel about a woman in love with a scoundrel.” Although it was extremely biographical in nature. “She no doubt imagines sparks everywhere.”
Knight gave a little nod while lifting a single shoulder in a shrug. “Perhaps. So with whom are you dancing?”
Rook had no reason not to say. After all, Knight would soon be witnessing him waltzing around the grand parlor with her.
“Miss Garrison,” he finally growled.
In all honesty, Rook wasn’t quite certain why he’d requested a dance of the American. Perhaps because now he knew that her ankle, arch, and toes were as perfect as her lips. And having kneaded that slender foot, he’d wanted to touch her once more before the night was done. Best to do it in a safe spot where witnesses would ensure he remained a perfect gentleman and on his best behavior. Not that he was prone to exhibiting any sort of misbehavior. Upon further reflection, however, he should probably ask a couple of other ladies to dance so no one else drew the conclusion Knight had: that Miss Garrison was somehow special.
Although he could claim to be striving to determine more about the investment opportunity.
“The way you’ve been watching her, I’d venture to guess that you’re going to seek more than a dance.”
He didn’t want to admit that he felt rather possessive about her. He’d seen her give cautious smiles to numerous dance partners, and he wanted one for himself. One that was more fully formed, not timid or shy. One that was as forceful as she’d been that first night. “Unlike you in your youth, Knight, I’ve never lured ladies into darkened corners for kisses.”
“Then I’d say it’s about time you did. You’ve always been far too proper. The right lady can make you want to be extremely improper.”
“And you have experience with that.”
“I don’t regret a single moment of it. Well, except for the part where I left her at the altar. Thank God, she forgave me.”
“Rest assured, I have no intention of following your ludicrous example of doing what I ought not. Or King’s or Bishop’s.”
And he’d certainly never leave anyone at the altar because he had no plans to ever make a trip to the altar to begin with. “Devil take you, we’re only going to dance. But if I did have more in mind”—he was no doubt going to regret asking—“since the rain doesn’t seem in favor of stopping anytime soon, and even if it does, the gardens will be too wet and muddy, where might I find a bit of privacy in this mausoleum?”
Because he had decided England could begin sinking into the sea, and he wasn’t going to retreat until he’d drawn the last bit of pleasure from that mouth that haunted him whether he was awake or asleep.
“You seem to have recovered well from the damage caused by the errant pebble in your slipper.”
They were only a few steps into their waltz, but already he wished he’d asked for a second, while he’d had a chance. He’d caught a glimpse of her card and every dance had been claimed.
Her cheeks flushed pink, and he wanted to lay his fingers against her skin and have the heat travel from her into him. “It was a tiny pebble, hardly caused any discomfort, but still irritating.”
He arched a brow and lifted one corner of his mouth ruefully. “Strange how it left no marks at all. I was unable to feel even the tiniest of dents where it had been.”
She pursed her luscious lips and glared at him hotly. “Very well. There was no pebble. I lied so I’d have an excuse to get away from my mother, who was doing her damnedest to mortify me.”
Pleased that she’d confessed the truth, he offered a sympathetic smile. “I assumed as much.”
“I suppose you never lie.”
“I don’t, because I know the secret of lies.”
A small pleat appeared between her brows, and he wanted to ease it away with a press of his thumb, just as he’d explored her arch. Her foot had responded by curling over his hand. What other reactions awaited his sensual stroking of her flesh?
“What secret?” she asked.
“That when you lie, your eyes turn purple.”
She gawked. “What are you talking about? That’s not true.”
“Of course it is. My mother explained it all to me when I was a lad. Therefore, whenever I lied, Iclosed my eyes so she wouldn’t see that they’d turned purple.”
She laughed. Dear Lord, it had been a mistake to try to ease that sound from her because he was left to decide whether he wanted her to be the Lady of Sighs or the Lady of Laughter. The echo of her glee was intoxicating. But then so were her sighs. Was he greedy to want a mixture of both?
And why from her? Other intriguing women had crossed his path through the years, but the infatuation had been short-lived. He couldn’t imagine her becoming less interesting. What made her so different? So addictive?
“Surely, you didn’t,” she said.
