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Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why are you smiling at me so wolfishly, Lord Hatherly?”
“Because I remembered that two ladies of your acquaintance married two of my friends. Could this be”—he gazed into her eyes, drawing his words out on a husky whisper—“written in the stars?”
The incredulity on her face was comic. “Written in the stars? Really, Lord Hatherly.” She shook her head. “What’s gotten into you? I thought you were against this marriage.”
This woman might require a bit more convincing.
“Until I spoke with you in seclusion, Miss Tombs. Until those delicious dimples of yours conquered my—”
“Stop right there.” She narrowed her eyes further, and her dimples disappeared. “We both know why you came here today, and it was not to pledge devotion to my dimples. I’ve no idea why you’re suddenly so interested in charming me.” She tossed her head. “It won’t work, you know. I’m thoroughly immune to your charm.”
This woman might require a lot of convincing.
For the first time in his adult life, Nick actually began to doubt his powers of seduction.
Perish that thought. You’re the master of seduction. Hedonistic Hatherly. The Wicked Marquess. One kiss and she’s yours.
No, too obvious.
The bigger challenge would be to awaken her sensuality. Make her want to kiss him.
Instead of moving closer, he walked to a sofa and, ignoring all social protocol, sat in front of a standing lady.
Seduction was nine-tenths anticipation.
He spread his arms across the mahogany edge of one of Sir Alfred’s velvet sofas, drawing her eyes to the muscles he kept well-honed with fencing and riding.
She helped herself to a long, lingering look.
The pink flush in her cheeks deepened.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” he asked. He patted the velvet cushion next to him. “We’ll talk this through in comfort.”
Warily, she seated herself as far from him as possible on the sofa—back straight, hands folded in her lap, ankles crossed—all neatly folded up.
“I’m sure you would prefer a more conventional and accommodating heiress,” she said. “What about Lady Melinda? She loves to swoon at your feet.” She clenched her hands together. “I’m decidedly peculiar. Everyone says so. You don’t want odd, ungracious me thrust upon you.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Miss Tombs.” He settled back against the sofa, shifting his knees wider, increasing the heat in his gaze. “Having you thrust upon me could be quite entertaining.”
