He’d more than enough reasons for self-loathing of late. More than enough proof he was, unfortunately, his father’s son.
“There, now,” he soothed. Moving slowly, so as not to startle her again, he loosened his cravat. “The fault is not entirely your own. I should have knocked before entering the room.” He placed the strip across his forearm. “Shall I tie this around your eyes now?”
“No!”
“No?”
“Presumptuous of you to undress, don’t you think?” Her voice was low, as if she were intentionally disguising her normal pitch.
“Disrobing on entry is my custom.”
“Custom,” she echoed.
He sighed.
This—this conversational inanity—was why he preferred a familiar partner. The Skylark would have been waiting when he entered, blindfolded and unclothed, and the softness of her skin would already have been bringing him blessed, blessed relief.
“My custom, yes. And my preference.” He bit his tongue before adding, and one for which I’ve paid handsomely.
The truth, yes. But hardly gentlemanly.
And Bessie’s accusation of rudeness had not been lost on him. Even in a transaction such as this one, one should not wholly abandon courtesy.
“As this is our first encounter,” he offered, “perhaps some conversation is in order.”
“Conversation?”
He flashed a rueful smile. “If you are going to repeat everything I say, perhaps I will call you the Magpie.”
“You will do no such thing!”
“Well, then.” Testy little strumpet. She may not be able to follow directions, but she’d been well-educated in elocution. “What kind of bird would you choose for a name?”
“I’m not a bird.”
She crossed her arms, which had the unintended effect of displaying a delectable amount of cleavage.
“And even if I were, I wouldn’t be a magpie!”
“Clearly!” He didn’t bother to hide his amusement. She was an odd little thing with a bit of a bite, too. Which was something he could understand, appreciate, even. “Why?”
“Magpies mimic the songs of other birds.” Her veil swished around her collar as she lifted her chin. “If I were a bird, I’d sing my own song.”
Ah.Independent, too. He felt a tug of affinity…an inexplicable draw, now, not only sensual, but intellectual, too.
“Which songbird is your favorite, then?” He kept his voice smooth, soothing. “I’m partial to blackbirds.”
He took another step forward. She remained seated, her hands gripping the sides of the chair. He nudged her knuckles, a bit like encouraging a parakeet off her perch. When she flexed her hand, he grasped her fingers tight within his own and then guided her to her feet.
She was taller than he’d expected. He could just about have tucked her head beneath his chin and yet her hips were nearly even with his own.
Perfect.
She’d removed the glove from the hand he held. Her fingers weren’t cold. Nor were they shaking. She’d long, thin fingers suited for gliding over a harp…or the flesh of a lover’s stomach.
“While blackbirds can be belligerent, they are also known to be independent”—he lifted her knuckles to his lips—“capable”—he caressed them with his thumb—“and”—he touched his lips against their softness—“clever.”
His mouth against her skin was flint striking flint. A thousand tiny sparks quickened. He held the back of her hand to his cheek, savoring the glimmer.
