Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“Shall I dance with you now?” he murmured.

She stared at him. What was he up to?

“It’s not a difficult question,” he said with a smile, tugging gently at her hand as he moved closer. “Yes…or no.”

She caught her breath.

“Or yes,” he said, chuckling as his free hand found its place at the small of her back. His lips approached her ear, not quite touching, but close enough so his words drifted across her skin like a kiss. “Yes is almost always the correct answer.”

He exerted a bit of pressure and slowly…softly…they began to dance. “And always,” he whispered, his mouth finally brushing her ear, “when you’re with me.”

He was seducing her. The realization washed over her with equal parts excitement and confusion. She couldn’t imagine why; he had never shown the least inclination to do so before. It was deliberate, too. He was unleashing every weapon in his arsenal, or at least every one allowable in a public garden.

And he was succeeding. She knew that his aims had to be Machiavellian-she was quite certain she had not turned irresistible during the course of one evening-but still, her skin was tingling, and when she breathed (which was not as often as she ought), her body seemed to lighten and float, and maybe she did not know so very much about relations between men and women, but she knew one thing…

He was making her silly.

Her brain was still working, and her thoughts were mostly complete, but there was no way he’d know that, because it was all she could do to gaze at him like a lovesick calf, her eyes begging him to move his hand, press at her back.

She wanted to sink against him. She wanted to sink into him.

Had she uttered a word since he’d taken her hand?

“I never noticed how lovely your eyes are,” he said softly, and she wanted to say that that was because he’d never bothered to look, and then she wanted to point out that he could hardly see the color in the moonlight.

But instead she smiled like a fool, and she tilted her head up toward his, because maybe…just maybe, he was thinking about kissing her, and maybe…just maybe, he would actually do it, and maybe…oh, definitely, she would let him.

And then he did. His lips brushed hers in what had to be the tenderest, most respectful, and romantic first kiss in history. It was everything she’d dreamed a kiss could be. It was sweet, and it was gentle, and it made her turn rather warm all over, and then, because she couldn’t help it, she sighed.

“So sweet,” he murmured, and she felt her arms come around his neck. He chuckled at her eagerness, and his own hands moved lower, cupping her bottom in the most scandalous fashion.

She let out a little squeak, squirming against him, and then his hands tightened, and his breathing changed.

And so did his kiss.

Chapter 3

The kiss, of course, had been intended to get her under his thumb, but this was a pleasant surprise.

Lady Amelia was rather delightful, and Thomas was finding her bottom to be especially enticing, so much so that his mind was already wandering far ahead, to some fuzzy and frockless place, where he could edge his hands ever so slightly down and around, past the insides of her thighs, his thumbs tickling their way up, and up, and up…

Good Lord, he might have to consider actually setting a date with the chit.

He deepened the kiss, enjoying her soft cry of surprise, then tugged her closer. She felt glorious against him, all soft curves and lithe muscles. She liked to ride; he’d heard that somewhere. “You’re lovely,” he murmured, wondering if she ever rode astride.

But this was not the time-and it was certainly not the place-to let his imagination get ahead of him. And so, confident that he had quashed her little rebellion, he pulled back, letting one hand linger on her cheek before finally lowering it to his side.

He almost smiled. She was staring at him with a dazed expression, as if she wasn’t quite certain what had just happened to her.

“Shall I escort you in?” he inquired.

She shook her head. Cleared her throat. Then finally said, “Weren’t you departing?”

“I could not leave you here.”

“I can go back in on my own.”

He must have looked at her dubiously, because she said, “You can watch me enter the building, if you like.”

“Why do you not wish to be seen with me?” he murmured. “I will be your husband before long.”

“Will you?”

He wondered where that dazed creature of passion had gone, because now she was watching him with eyes that were clear and sharp. “You doubt my word?” he asked, his voice carefully impassive.

“I would never do that.” She took a step away from him, but it was not a movement of retreat. It was more of a signal-he no longer held her mesmerized.

“What, then, was your intention?”

She turned and smiled. “Of course you will be my husband. It is the ‘before long’ part of it that I question.”

He stared at her for a lengthy moment before saying, “We have never spoken frankly, you and I.”

“No.”

She was more intelligent than he had been led to believe. This was a good thing, he decided. Vexing at times, but overall, a benefit. “How old are you?” he demanded.

Her eyes widened. “You don’t know?”

Oh, bloody hell. The things females chose to get up in arms about. “No,” he said, “I don’t.”

“I’m twenty-one.” She curtsied then, a mocking little bob. “On the shelf, really.”

“Oh, please.”

“My mother despairs.”

He looked at her. “Impertinent baggage.”

She considered this, even looked pleased by the insult. “Yes.”

“I ought to kiss you again,” he said, lifting one brow into a practiced, arrogant arch.

She wasn’t so sophisticated that she had a ready retort for that, a circumstance with which he found himself quite satisfied. He leaned forward slightly, smirking. “You’re quiet when I kiss you.”

She gasped with outrage.

“You’re quiet when I insult you as well,” he mused, “but oddly, I don’t find it quite as entertaining.”

“You are insufferable,” she hissed.

“And yet they arrive,” he sighed. “Words. From your lips.”

“I’m leaving,” she declared. She turned to stalk back into the assembly hall, but he was too quick, and he slid his arm through hers before she could escape. To an onlooker, it would have seemed the most courteous of poses, but the hand that rested over hers did more than cover it.

She was locked into place.

“I’ll escort you,” he said with a smile.

She gave him an insolent look but did not argue. He patted her hand then, deciding to let her choose whether she found the gesture comforting or condescending. “Shall we?” he murmured, and together they strolled back in.