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“Thank you.”
“So shall we talk about what happened upstairs? I really think we should.”
“Over my dead body,” Charlotte said sharply.
He took another sip of claret and leaned back in his chair, looking very much at home. “Perhaps later.”
“Perhaps never.” She scowled at him. “I’d prefer it if we avoid mentioning my woeful lapse in judgment.”
He smiled at her as if she hadn’t just insulted him. “Let’s not spoil our meal with arguing.”
Which, she was well aware, did not an agreement make.
Of course he didn’t agree. He had his own agenda, and he meant to stick to it. Charlotte had a horrible feeling that if he wanted to talk about kisses, they’d talk about kisses.
And marriage.
He was nothing if not persistent. The unwelcome suspicion arose that Lord Lyle’s determination might even rival hers. And she was the stubbornest person she knew.
Seeking to calm her rush of nerves, she drank some more wine. Rich, complex flavors filled her mouth. She closed her eyes in pleasure. When she opened them, Lyle watched her with disconcerting concentration, his hands flat on the table’s polished surface.
She narrowed her gaze, daring him to say anything…incendiary. “It’s my father’s best. Seeing it’s his fault we’re in this mess, the least he can do is supply us with a decent drop to drink.”
Lyle lifted his glass in her direction. “In that case, I toast my amiable host and my exquisite hostess.”
She braced for more, but he set down his wine and addressed himself to his food with an enthusiasm that she couldn’t help liking.
The worry was that the more she saw of Lord Lyle, the more she liked. As the meal progressed and he told her about London and she told him about her life on the estate, that liking burgeoned. Even while her intuition screamed that this compatibility was more dangerous to her future plans than his kisses.
And his kisses had come close to demolishing every scrap of her resistance.
Chapter Six
* * *
“How is it you’ve never been to London?” Lyle asked idly.
Despite Charlotte’s intention to keep her distance, she found herself sharing the couch in front of the fire with Lord Lyle. She finished the last of the wine while he enjoyed a glass of her father’s best port. The earl wasn’t touching her. He’d been a perfect gentleman all night, something that shouldn’t rankle. But she was far too conscious of his arm stretched along the back of the chair behind her.
“I’ve run the estate since I was fifteen.” She set her glass on a side table without shifting away from Lyle. “I’m busy enough here without going anywhere else.”
“Still, a bonny lassie like you must have wanted a season, to show off in the latest fashions, and dance all night, and dazzle society’s laddies. When they were younger, my sisters never shut up about it.”
She shrugged and rested her hand on Bill’s head. He snoozed between them, not much of a chaperone. Bill was usually wary of strangers. But given how fast Lyle had won her over, she could forgive her dog’s capitulation. “What would be the point? I don’t want to marry.”
Lyle eyed her curiously. “You’re very adamant.”
“Yes, I am.” To her chagrin, not as adamant as she’d been before opening her door to a certain Mr. Smith.
“Why?”
“My lord…” she said in a quelling tone.
His hand curved around her shoulder. “I’m just trying to understand.”
“You’re also…touching me,” she said, feeling absurd.
“A mere friendly gesture, my dear Miss Warren.” Even through her woolen dress, the contact set her skin tingling. She told herself to move, stand up, go upstairs to bed, but the commands had no power, and she remained where she was. To preserve her pride, she gave a little wriggle to prove she wasn’t completely under his spell. She hoped he found her attempt more convincing than she did.
