And not at the moths.
Why she didn’t know. She’d no curvy figure like Lowdy or pretty green eyes like Mrs Tripconey. Everything was pale except for her summer skin and she even lost that in winter.
“I think it worth repeating,” Tamsyn said, clearing her throat, “theFoppiso magnificofromSmellium Londinium.”
He scrutinised the moth. “It does appear a magnificent creature with splendid legs and a huge…wingspan.”
A giggle escaped her. His humour was infectious, bawdy even, and she suspected he laughed most of his conquests into bed. But he also mocked himself, aware of his own nature, and it was too difficult to stay aloof from him.
One of the moths flew from the sheet, its reddish-brown wings flitting in her face for a moment, before disappearing off – at last realising the flame held no value.
“That was one of my favourites, the Feathered Thorn orColotois pennaria. So called for its antennae as they have…feathery bits on them.”
“Do they live long as moths?” Jack asked as he watched it vanish into the night.
“A few weeks or so. It depends. Some species die after mating,” she murmured low, aware this wasn’t really a conversation to be conducted betwixt a woman and a rogue… At night. In the dark. Alone. “Mating is its sole purpose in life.”
Jack twisted, eyes as bottomless as a copper mine, grin wide. “A most principled endeavour that deserves reward.”
Stretching out on the clipped straw-like grass, their legs brushed in the silence. He sat so very close.
“And what principles guide Jack Winterbourne?”
His grin faltered. That lemon citrus cologne had deepened with the warmth of his skin, now redolent of succulent oranges from the glasshouse, sweet and ripe and tempting.
“Polished boots?” she prompted, attempting flippancy. “Perfect cravats?” Anything to lighten the sultry atmosphere, the night closing around them.
No more than shirt and breeches clung to his lean frame, this particular cravat dangling imperfectly around his neck, unknotted and baring his throat to the weak moonlight.
Dishevelment suited him. Usually he was so well-turned-out, but she liked this more slapdash marquess – unaffected and real.
“Honesty,” he finally answered, drawing her from those wandering thoughts.
She cocked her head, not foreseeing that. “Then tell me why you are here.”
A mournful cry – the peacock searching a mate.
Tamsyn expected the marquess to leave or for lies to spill from those perfect lips.
Abruptly, he stood and her shoulders stooped. There would be no honesty tonight.
“Bloody rule thirty, the cheeky bugger,” he muttered, pacing.
“What rule?” She frowned.
“If all else fails, try honesty. Rule thirty.”
She shook her head, not understanding at all.
He dropped to his knees in front of her once more, fine satin breeches besmirched with grass, and then he leaned close and tipped her chin.
The brush of his fingers scorched, his breath port-laced and sweet.
“Principally, I am here for you, Tamsyn. To learn what happened six years ago.”
She wanted to scream, to scuttle away and hide, but Jack had told her the truth, unvarnished and raw.
Where this man was concerned, she’d so wished to keep her prejudices alive – to see him as a deceiver and yet he constantly opened her eyes to his many contradictions.
