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“You don’t mince words, Miss Smith.”
“No, I don’t,” she said calmly. Still, blast her, without moving away. Didn’t she know he was dangerous?
He waved off a footman bearing a tray of orgeat. He despised that sickly sweet swill. Bugger it, he wanted a real drink. And he wanted to get his head screwed on right. For God’s sake, he was accounted a connoisseur of the frail sex. He refused to let a prune-faced virgin divert him from his quest.
A prune-faced virgin who stood so close, he caught teasing hints of her scent. Something wholesome and clean. Something indicating innocence.
Of course it did.
“I make a difficult enemy,” he said in a low voice.
She shrugged, still without looking at him. “Set your sights on another heiress, Lord Ranelaw.”
“And that’s a commandment from my lady disdain?”
At last she stared directly at him. The tinted glasses obscured her eyes, but he couldn’t mistake her jaw’s stubborn line. “You can’t possibly consider this a challenge. A country miss and a harridan of a chaperone?”
He felt an unaccustomed urge to laugh again. He had the oddest conviction that she knew him better than anyone else here. “Why not?”
The primming of her mouth only drew his attention to its pink fullness. A spinster companion had no right to such kissable lips.
Now he’d actually met her, the prospect of bedding Cassandra Demarest flooded him with ennui. Whereas the idea of shutting Miss Smith’s delectable but scolding mouth with passionate kisses, then thrusting hard between her spindly thighs made him vibrate with anticipation. Vinegar became his beverage of choice. He must have a maggot in his brain. He rarely found troublesome women appealing. Miss Smith had troublesome written all over her scrawny form.
Years of practice helped him conceal these unsettling reactions. Instead he tilted a knowing eyebrow and spoke in an indolent drawl that would irritate her to her undoubtedly thick and scratchy undergarments. “You know, for a woman little above a servant, you have a damned impudent manner.”
Again she didn’t back down. Her drawl almost matched his for self-confidence. Who was this woman? “Only impudent? How disappointing. When I strove for insolent, my lord.”
This time a huff of laughter did escape. No female crossed swords with him, no matter how high born.
Miss Smith provided a refreshing change.
Perhaps that was why he found her so compelling. He couldn’t possibly have developed a taste for hatchet-faced maypoles with sharp tongues and no dress sense.
“Miss Smith,” he murmured in a silky voice, “if you seek to discourage, you’re failing miserably. The prospect of besting you becomes irresistible.”
Still she didn’t take warning. Her chin tipped at a defiant angle. “Prove yourself a better man than the world believes and resist temptation, Lord Ranelaw.”
A smile curled his lips. She was delicious. Tart like lemon curd. A sharp, fresh taste that wouldn’t pall. Oh, he’d have her in his bed. She’d be his reward for ruining the poppet.
“Temptation is impossible to resist. That’s what makes it temptation.”
“You would know.”
“Miss Smith, you’d be amazed at what I know,” he said with as much salacious emphasis as he could manage. And a man with his experience could manage a great deal.
Through her spectacles, he felt her withering glance. Brava, Miss Smith. Seducing this woman would be like training a leopard to eat from his hand. She hissed and snarled now, but under a master’s tutelage, she’d learn to purr.
“Lord Ranelaw . . .” she began, an edge to her voice.
The promise of a tongue-lashing was devilish exciting. What a pity he couldn’t whisk her away and teach her to use that tongue for other purposes altogether.
The wench would have an apoplexy if she could read his mind.
Although something told him little disconcerted the stalwart Miss Smith. No wonder she was accounted the dragon of chaperones. Ranelaw rather liked casting himself as St. George. And this St. George would steal away both maiden and monster. Lucky fellow.
“Toni?”
