Page 45 of The Lyon Rampant

Her fire still burned in the hearth, and he could see a gleam of light coming from between the hangings that curtained the old-fashioned bed.

“Belinda—I need to talk to you.” He kept his voice soft, unthreatening, and waited, heart pounding.

The curtain was whisked aside, and Belinda, attired in matronly nightgown and cap, glared at him.

“How dare you! Don’t you even knock?” Her eyes raked his person, and her cheeks pinked. Ah. He’d forgotten he’d already started undressing. Praying she wasn’t about to scream the house down, he pulled out his handkerchief and waved it, hoping to amuse her.

“I come in peace.”

“You shouldn’t have come at all,” she snapped back at him. At least she wasn’t screaming or throwing anything. So far, so good.

“I sincerely just want to talk. But it’s chilly out here—can I join you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll perch on the edge on the other side, on top of the bedclothes. No harm in that, is there?”

“Only if you stay there.”

“I trust you’re keeping that ankle well rested.” He settled on the other side of the bed, and saw that she’d been reading, holding the book with one hand and her candlestick with the other.

“Shall I take that for you?” He reached for the candlestick and set it on the bedside cabinet, well clear of the bed curtains.

She folded her arms. “So now I’m not allowed to read and must give all my attention to you?”

It wasn’t very gentlemanly of him to invade her privacy like this, was it? But his need to have everything resolved between them had become more urgent with every passing minute.

“Surely you value your cousins enough not to want to burn down their property?” he inquired, then wondered why his voice had a catch in it. The removal of the candle had created an intimate darkness in the bed which began to blur the boundaries between what was proper and what was not.

Belinda shifted and the bedclothes rustled softly as she drew them up to her chin, ready to hear him out. Only—he’d forgotten what he’d wanted to say. All he could think about was the fact that he was sharing a bed with a shapely blonde of whom he was becoming rather fond. His body was not thinking in the same direction as his mind.

Better get this over quickly. “Have you told the Tragos of our engagement?”

“I have, but I’ve couched it in such terms that they won’t be surprised when they hear it’s been broken off.”

“Speaking ill of me already? You wound me, my dear! That’s not at all the way to go about it. To the rest of the world, ours is a love match. Certainly, my father will think so, and my mother will hope most earnestly that such is the case. So please don’t start acting as if we’re incompatible before we’ve even told the world of our engagement.”

Here, in this warm, confined space, he could hear the rhythm of her breathing, perhaps faster than normal—was he upsetting her?

“You want me to pretend to be in love with you?”

He tried not to be offended by the horror in her voice. “Yes. Give me your hand.”

After a pause, he felt the touch of her hand on his knee, so he pressed his fingers between hers, brought her hand to his lips, and kissed it.

“There—that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I suppose not.”

He didn’t release her. It would be good for her to get used to his touch.

“Any man might kiss a lady’s hand, though. It doesn’t mean he loves her.”

His eyebrows shot up. Was she asking for some other demonstration?

“Ah, but there’s not much that can be done in front of an audience, is there? Although holding hands like this under the table, or at the opera, or even when dancing, is a sign of something more than mere acquaintance.”

Still maintaining his grip on Belinda’s hand, he lay back against the pillows. “What were you reading when I interrupted you?”