Page 33 of The Lady Knows Best

After a moment, she asked in a whisper, “Does that mean you intend to permit me to keep writing?”

The question was so unexpected, it took him a moment to comprehend. “Once we’re married, you mean?”

Her chin dipped, almost imperceptibly.

“I will not permit it, my dear,” he said. At that, her head spun and her gaze snapped to his. “I will insist upon it. I for one am eager to read your retraction.”

“My retraction?”

“Oh, yes.” He lifted his brows suggestively. “It should be easy enough to pen. Once you’ve discovered just how enjoyable it can be, being married to a rake.”

Was it his imagination, or was the spark in her eyes brighter now? Warmer?

Could it be that she enjoyed being teased?

Oh, but that was promising indeed.

“I assume you refer to that old saw about reformed rakes.” She tilted her head toward him and favored him with a look he was fast coming to consider her “Miss Busy B. expression”—part disapproving governess, part insufferable know-all, part inquisitive young lady who couldn’t quite make herself look away, though she knew she ought. “Tell me, my lord. Do you have any intention of reforming?”

He stretched out his legs and leaned back as much as the bench would allow. In a more comfortable chair, his posture would have been described as a sprawl—a blatant invitation for her gaze to travel his body, head to toe. “Which of my vices would you have me give up? My bootmaker? My tailor? Surely, you do not want a shabby bridegroom, ma’am.”

Again, the quirk of lips that were determined not to betray a smile.

“Or perhaps you object to my French cologne?”

“Your French brandy, rather,” she retorted. “Your gambling. Your . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible above the chatter rising from the garden below. “. . . flirtations.”

A little frippery of a hat sat perched high upon her head. Beneath it, her hair was more simply arranged today, the sort of coiffure that could be mussed by a man’s careless fingers without anyone being the wiser. And her gown was pale, diaphanous muslin, embroidered with a green vine and the occasional pink rosebud. Perfect for a garden party. On this warm day, its skirts clung to her limbs most provocatively.

He raked his gaze over her, tipping his head to the side. “Must I stop flirting with you?”

Her lips parted and her breasts rose. A gasp, though he hadn’t heard it.

A gasp of pleasure.

Was it possible no one had ever flirted with her before? Or perhaps Daphne, so suspicious, so quick to take offense, had never understood?

Either way, he intended to use this moment to his advantage. This was the sort of courtship he understood.

“You blush most prettily,” he said, reaching up to whisk a knuckle over one soft cheek.

She caught her plump lower lip between her teeth, rather than betray herself with another gasp. “Do I?”

God, but she was such an innocent—just the sort of sweet, simple perfection to tempt a man whose palate had grown jaded.

He leaned toward her, ready to capture her mouth in a kiss, when the rasp of hinges shattered the illusion of privacy. “The door,” she explained. Voices began to float over the rooftop garden.

He started to sit up straighter, to put some distance between them.

She reached out a hand, tangled her fingers with his, and stood, tugging him to his feet. “Come on.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“The glasshouse.”

CHAPTER 11

When Daphne had retreated to the rooftop garden earlier that afternoon, she hadn’t done so with any sort of plan in mind. Yet somehow, things had gone awry anyway.