“It was her sister…” he mumbled, “…and in the library of all places.”
Oh.
Twisting the silk fringe to knots, Tamsyn debated her options as he bemoaned the lack of journalistic integrity in this day and age.
For propriety’s sake, she ought to await her family for the introduction, but Papa and his manservant were struggling with some new dashing cravat style for the ball, Lowdy was rouging her pale cheeks and Aunt Sarah was partaking of a medicinal sweet sherry in her chambers.
“Lord Winterbourne, welcome. I am Miss Penrose.” The words fell in a rasped rush, startling him, brandy spilling over his gorse-green waistcoat. “Beg pardon,” she whispered, “I didn’t…”
But his lips curled sinfully, eyes widening, and he elegantly rose. “Miss Penrose.” The deep bow was…perfect, a flourishing long-fingered sweep, and although he bent at the waist, he still managed to leisurely peruse her form with that flashing ebony gaze.
Damnable rogue.
Travel attire had looked well upon him, but evening dress embellished the exquisite. Tight coal-black breeches, sapphire tailcoat and a hitherto pristine waistcoat. No wonder the maids were all atwitter.
He held her fingers, a light press, and lips briefly swept over the top, causing a shiver of distaste…surely.
“And I apologise for my manner on Goonhilly Downs,” he declared, voice a rumble. “Presented with your beauty, my wits quite abandoned me, and then to realise the…charming and adept lady on horseback was to be my hostess.”
Tamsyn scrunched her nose. That was doing it a bit brown. She’d almost trampled him to death and her aspect must have resembled a grey and dusty pigeon.
“I…” Limpid seas, calm skies, she fought to picture…anything but breath caught nonetheless, tightness clasping her throat.Damn it, she thought this debilitating weakness was conquered but in trying circumstances, it reasserted itself as though to mock her notions of strength.
“And I’d be glad to change this waistcoat anyway,” he rambled on. “’Tis quite the most humdrum item I’ve ever worn but my valet thought it bucolic.”
She laughed – how could she not? – the coil of tension untying. He wassucha fribble. Why had she ever thought him a man of Whitehall?
“It is difficult to stay so…perfect in the country,” she managed.
“Oh, I don’t mind getting…dishevelled on occasion, Miss Penrose. In fact, there are times when it’s most essential.”
Tamsyn opened her mouth and then closed it again. Was he being bawdy? Surely not.
“A jaunt through Hyde Park in my spanking new phaeton, for instance,” he continued innocently, “can cause a slight heat to break upon one’s brow. I shouldn’t tell you this, but…” He peeped behind her to the half-open door, lids hooded. “…I’m forced to bathe every two hours in London.”
She banished the image of his naked wet limbs from whence it came.
At once.
“I only bathe on a full moon,” she blithefully retorted. Perhaps he’d desist in his silly flattery now.
A curious look flared in his eyes, before he abruptly leaned forward, lips within an inch of her neck. The marquess inhaled deeply, disturbing tendrils of hair, and after a low murmur, withdrew. Her turncoat heart produced a cavernous thud, skin goosing despite the heat.
“In that case, September’s full moon must be upon us, Miss Penrose, as you smell divine. Of almonds and honey and all things sweet.”
Oh, he was good. His voice smooth and seductive, motion graceful and controlled.
It did absolutely nothing for her except produce another shiver…of distaste.
She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve always believed in that old adage of cleanliness being next to Godliness, my lord, but after reading of your exploits, it seems I may need to reassess.”
Gosh, where had that come from? No constriction had assailed her throat, and she hadn’t spoken with such verve for years.
But then again, she’d not encountered such a superficial rake in years either.
Digging oneself deeper into a pit of Cornish clay wasn’t advisable, Jack knew that, but devil’s ballocks, he was enjoying himself immensely.
Miss Penrose was unexpected, witty and as for those eyes… The palest, bluest gaze he had ever encountered – a sunny day with fog. Not the most Byronic description but apt none the less and framed by her tanned skin and coiled walnut hair, they shone like robin’s eggs – without the speckly bits.
