“Do,” she said. For the cognac only, of course.
As if he heard her restriction, he gave her a sidelong look of wry approval, then took two steps toward her. His hand out with his offering, he looked congenial enough, even harmless.
Is it a ruse? His innocent offer?Or had he learned from someone that she preferred the fine cognacs of the southern port of Bordeaux?
She’d ask about it. That was all there was to that. For now, she tipped her glass upside down and emptied the vile, tepid wine into the chrysanthemums.
He grimaced. “The poor flowers.”
“Better they die than me.” Extending her glass toward him, she ventured, “Bordeaux may be blockaded, but smugglers get it through.”
“By hook and crook, we say.” He poured, generously so, up to the rim of her flute. “Lady Carlisle will have to order more of those exotic flowers shipped from Canton. Drink.” He urged her with his fingers flexing up, up, up. “You will like yourself better.”
She took a long, satisfying swallow and settled completely into the cushions on her chair. “Merci beaucoup. The pleasure happens already.”
She let her eyes drift closed. The sounds of tiny animals in the grasses and the flutter of the occasional bird brought her peace. She sat like that for long minutes, longer than she expected…and startled when she realized her companion had not said a word.
One eye opened.
He stood before her in his glory. Tall.Mon Dieu, the man was tall. And she was no dainty woman. She matched most men in height. But when—if—she stood near this man, he would rise above her, disarmingly so, a foot or more.
She met his level gaze. His eyes widened, and in the light of the brazier, she admired him as much as she could in the soft Novembershades of evening.
He did not flinch or turn away, but let her have her fill.
Dark curls fell over his high brow, a rich brown with streaks of chocolate. A remarkable contrast to his unusual eyes. His complexion had been kissed by the sun. A man of the elements, then. The ivory of his stock contrasted well. His bonestructure? Ah,oui.She was back to that, and it seized her breath. He’d been sculpted by the Roman gods. A square face was completed by a handsome jawline. His wide, full brows sat atop large, long-lashed eyes. His nose was long and nigh unto Gallic French. His flat cheeks fanned out over high bones. His lips were generous, meant to speak and persuade—and kiss. All his features lent a regal sophistication so that, she was certain when he was in need of it, his arrogance was established by the mere fix of brow and set of strong, wide mouth.
To his perfection, she was drawn so badly that her mouth watered. What she would give to trace her lips over the arch of his cheek and make that mouth open for her and consume her. He was a man who knew what to do to please a woman and rejoice in the long hours he spent to make her happy.
But he is not for you, Inès. He is too sharp. Too accomplished.
She had promised herself no entanglements too soon after arriving in London. That was the only way to establish her reputation as viable.Impeccable. Worthy of…so many things that are not true.
She straightened in her chair.
With men, she would be selective. Very selective. If she even took one to her at all. Even then, no man could be hers too quickly or without her own investigation of his proclivities…and her compatibility.
He lifted his noble chin. “Take another drink.”
Her eyes on his, she did. The warmth spread down her throat, through her chest. It was certainly superb, this brew. This heat. This man’s silent allure.
He grinned, one side of his mouth hooking up in a wry smile. He had a dimple! Another quality, damn his perfection, to lure a lady into his lap.
But then he turned away and sat down. This time, he must be sitting on one of the stepping stones. She could see the back of his head. The curls there were thick. She was certain they were soft. They even made her fingers itch to touch them. His neck was corded. His shoulders were deliciously wide, meant to capture and hug and keep a woman…
“You think too loudly, Mademoiselle Bechard.”
She blew disdain at him.
He chuckled, but did not turn to face her, then said, “Why not come to my young sister’s ball next week? You and I can learn more of each other…without talking, that is.”
“Dancing?” No, she should not move in his arms, feel his strength or his pulse beneath her fingertips. She chose her men carefully, according to need. Now here in London, she might choose one. Only one. All for her own very practical reason. This man did not fit. He was a virile animal, most likely untamable. She needed one she could manage. He was not that at all. He was a man who charmed women easily. She would not be his quick conquest.
He got to his feet, brushing off the back of his coat and his trousers without turning around. “Friday. Nine o’clock.”
“Should I?” she asked herself, but teased him with the possibility. She had not danced in months and she loved to do it with a partner who knew how to command the floor.
“Of course.” He appeared so innocent. So dashing.
