“I’m not certain that’s proper usage of the word.” He pretended to cogitate on her grammar for a moment before bearing down on her, pressing forward so that she had to look up at him. “But I have observed you, my dear, and you do machinate. Poor Horton has no idea which way is up. You have convinced him to sup quite eagerly out of your slipper. And I ask you, Lord Horton? Could you not pick a fellow with more backbone? Someone a trifle more worthy of your—”
“Lord Horton has thirty thousand a year.” She said it as if it were a slap to his face.
“Does he? A very convincing argument. I wish you happy.”
“Oh? And what of you and Miss Devious-Dunworthy? Do you think your paragon of feminine virtues isn’t hanging out for a title? Then you are more fool than I thought. Yet I doubt you will accuse her of machinations.”
“You can’t be jealous.”
“Don’t be tedious.” She stepped back and crossed her arms. “I am never jealous.”
“And I am never tedious.”
She thrust her finger at him. “You are. You are tedious this very minute.”
He grabbed the accusatory finger and clasped her hand in his like a fluttering bird in his palm. She stared at her captive hand. The pulse quickened in her neck.
He spoke softly, issuing a challenge. “You might not think me so tedious if I were to kiss you again.” It was a fool thing to say. He didn’t care. The alarm on her face was worth the price of his impropriety.
Alarmed, yes, but she didn’t try to wrench free. Her hand quivered in his palm. He felt her heart beating wildly.
Valen had an insane urge to laugh, run, pull her along beside him. Instead he decided to irritate her. “After all, it caused you considerable speculation last night.”
She drew back, her breast swelling indignantly. She was so confounded appealing. Suddenly he realized the wild heartbeat in his hand might be his own.
Dangerous.
Still, he couldn’t let go. “It would seem kissing you is the only way to escape your haranguing tongue.”
She arched her brow. “Oh? We’re discussing my tongue again, are we?” They stood far too close.
He swallowed. His voice caught on something low in his throat. He was in trouble. “See. You’re doing it this very minute.” He let go of her hand and stepped back. “Machinating me. Well, it won’t work. I see right through you.”
And so he did. Her gown clung to her in remarkably descriptive ways. He shook his head, half-grinning. “You are a diabolically clever woman. I don’t know how you do it, but I’m not going to succumb. No, my lady, I won’t kiss you. No matter how much you beguile me.” His treacherous feet carried him back to her, close enough to reach down and...
Her chin tilted up. Was it an invitation or her damnable pride?
“Nothing could be further from my mind.” She sniffed her pretty nose at him, wrinkling it with disdain. “In fact, I would slap you soundly should you attempt such a thing. And, I am certainly not beguiling you.”
But she was beguiling him. The pinkness climbing her neck, the flutter of her hand to her breast, the pout on her lips, the wistful flicker in her eyes. All—maddeningly alluring.
In about two seconds, he would haul her into the trees and give her a good sound kissing, a kissing she well and truly deserved. His conscience spoke firmly, reining in his rash thoughts, scolding him for falling so neatly into her feminine gambit.
He shook his head and allowed himself to laugh aloud. “Enough. I cry craven.” He smiled at her, raising his hands in defeat. “You win.” Valen wasn’t sure what game they’d been playing at, but she’d just stolen all the points.
Odd. She ought to look triumphant rather than so enticingly disappointed.
He had that urge again to pull her into the trees and... “Perhaps we ought to return to the others.”
Her brow pinched up. She nodded her agreement and in stern tones added, “Splendid idea.”
Valen could not help but take note of the small sigh that escaped her lips as they turned around on the path. It was a tiny thing—almost imperceptible. All the same it pleased him. In all probability it was another of her wicked machinations. Even so, he liked it.
8
Tis Better to Weave Than to Rip
While Robert paced in the entry hall, Valen leaned in the doorway of his aunt’s study with a brandy in his hand. He hadn’t seen Izzie since the previous afternoon. She’d been cloistered away in her rooms, and he’d been busy at his tailors, fitting the new green peacock coat. Vain fowl everywhere would soon squawk with jealousy. The coat was sufficiently grotesque to draw everyone’s attention at Lady Ashburton’s ball.
Robert dropped into a chair next to the study door. “Come with us, St. Evert. Dead bore these balls. Don’t know if I can tolerate it on my own.”
“Courage, man. I’ll be along later. Promised my aunt I’d accompany her. She prefers to straggle in after everyone else has arrived. Insists on making an impressive entrance.”
“Wish I was going late. Can’t abide all that standing in line and how-do-you-do nonsense. And then there’s dinner. Stuck listening to a sour old baroness on one hand and some horse-face chit prattling on t’other.”
“Perhaps you will be lucky enough to entertain Miss Dunworthy on one side.”
Robert sat up. “Capital thought. Do you really think she might be there?”
“I have it on good authority. I promised to be her partner for one of the sets.”
Robert’s face brightened. “Excellent news. Tell you what. If you don’t arrive in time, I shall be happy to fulfill your obligation.”
Valen swirled his brandy. “Noble of you.”
“Least I can do.” Robert slapped his hands on his thighs and stood. “Where is that sister of mine? Long past time we were leaving.”
Izzie, as if on cue, appeared on the stairs. The glass in Valen’s hand nearly slipped out of
