Page 43 of The Lady’s No Angel

“And yet, I am accused of sulking?”

“You are sulking. You’re being all—” Angel cast about for the correct word, spitting out the first thing that seemed to fit. “Noble!”

He stared at her, utterly baffled.

“Miss Baxter, you are, without a doubt, the most aggravating female I have ever encountered.”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” she snapped back.

He moved towards her, his deep voice rumbling through her, making her nerves leap. “It may have escaped your notice, my dear, but I’m no female.”

“N-No, but you’re aggravating.”

Suddenly he was standing right in front of her, gazing at her, his eyes lit with a wicked fire that made her want to burn with him, consequences be damned. The small, sensible voice in her head, the one she generally disregarded, shrieked flee!

She ignored it.

Despite knowing better, her gaze drifted from his eyes to his mouth. She knew his lips were warm and soft, and he had kissed her like it meant something, like she was precious.

He’d had a deal of practice, she assured herself.

Yet he was so close now her skirts brushed his legs, and the tantalising scent of him grew stronger, intoxicating her and making her senses reel.

“Are you sorry you lost, Miss Baxter? Is that why you are here, annoying me?” he asked, though it sounded more like a growl than words.

“Annoying you?” she repeated, because it was the only part of the sentence she was brave enough to deal with. “Well, if that’s the way you feel, I shall just go and—”

Before she could turn and stalk away, head held high and dignity intact, he reached for her.

Angel gasped as his hands slid around her waist, pulling her close. Instinctively, her hands came up, braced upon his chest, and the heat of him blazed through his waistcoat, everything beneath the fabric unyielding, like warm marble.

“Answer the question.”

Angel’s jaw tightened. She didn’t want to answer the question. He’d know if she lied, and… and why must he be so provoking?

“Miss Baxter—”

“Oh, yes! Drat you,” she said crossly. “Yes, I was sorry, you dreadful man, but I can’t think why.”

Before he could give her a reason, she reached up, grabbed hold of his head, and dragged it towards her, pressing her mouth against his.

Hart’s mind reeled as Miss Baxter sank her slender fingers into his hair, her mouth moving over his. In some dim, very dim, recess of his brain lived an awareness of all the things gentlemen did and did not do with innocent young ladies.

The trouble was, where Miss Baxter was concerned, things seemed to get in a tangle. In the first place, he’d given her exactly what she wanted, and she’d come storming after him and thrown a temper fit in his bedroom. His bedroom. And then she’d kissed him!

And yes, all right, he’d grabbed hold of her first, but if she’d told him to get his hands off her—as any sensible girl would have done—he’d have let go. But she didn’t—she held on. This wasn’t the kind of behaviour he associated with debutantes, and as for the kiss…. Heat simmered beneath his skin as her wicked mouth did terrible things to his equilibrium.

She pulled away suddenly, breathing hard, staring up at him with a glassy-eyed expression that made him feel somewhat better.

“And let that be a lesson to you,” she said, as though she’d given him a sound telling off.

“It shall,” Hart replied gravely. The lesson being that Miss Baxter was prone to kissing a fellow when she lost her temper. If she thought he wasn’t taking notes, she was far wide of the mark.

“Good,” she said, patting his chest in a friendly manner that was a little at odds with the passionate kiss that was still vibrating in the air between them. “Well, then. Now that’s settled, I’d—I’d best be going.”

Hart nodded. “Probably.”

She let out a breath. “Right. Good evening, Mr Cleaver, I’ll—”