“I want to look.” She grabbed his arm, hoping to pull him in after her, but he wouldn’t budge.
“Your father wouldn’t like you to be alone with me in my bedchamber.”
“My father isn’t here, is he? What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
She marched in, leaving him to skulk in the hall like an imbecile.
There was very little evidence of him in the sitting room, no trinkets tossed on a table, no coat thrown over a chair, so she brazenly proceeded to the bedroom and the dressing room beyond.
In it, she found the type of items for which she’d been searching: his razor and shaving cup, a pair of muddy riding boots in the corner, and—scandalously—a bath robe hanging from a hook.
She imagined herself wed to him, having the right to simply waltz in whenever she chose. Several of her friends had already married, and they whispered shocking tales of their husbands prancing about naked, of frightening physical acts carried out in the dark of night. She was anxious to learn what they were, but no one would explain.
She tried to picture him without his clothes, and she supposed he’d resemble a Greek statue, all smooth skin and sculpted muscle. The very idea made her cheeks heat, and she could barely keep from picking up a towel and fanning herself.
She spun around, and he was dawdling in the doorway, leaned against the frame. He appeared bored, and she was aggravated in the extreme. When he gazed at her, he ought to be overcome by desire.
Sauntering over, she approached until her skirt brushed his legs. She was being very forward, but what else was she to do? So far, he’d been tediously polite, and she was determined to elicit a reaction.
She was skilled at flirting, and she could drive a man wild with passion. He didn’t stand a chance at resisting her.
She toyed with a button on his shirt, tracing her finger round and round in circles. He didn’t move away, but he didn’t move any nearer either. He simply stared, evincing no heightened interest and no curiosity as to her advance.
“I’ve heard the worst stories about you,” she said.
“Have you?”
“Yes. That’s why I came to Stafford. I had to find out if they were true.”
He didn’t remark on her brash statement, didn’t probe as to what the stories might be or if they had altered her opinion of his character.
“Would you like me to tell you what some of them are?”
“Not really.”
“Everyone in London swears you have a mistress, that she’s living here openly with you. Is she?”
He stepped away. “Let’s get you downstairs. You need to be going or you’ll never make Fitzroy’s by nightfall.”
“I’m staying at Stafford tonight, and you haven’t answered my question. Is your mistress in residence? If she is, I insist on being introduced to her so I may punch her in the nose.”
She cocked her head and grinned, a playful pose that was very fetching. She constantly practiced it in front of the mirror. He’d wonder if she was jesting or serious. After all, what gently-bred young lady would mention such a disgraceful person?
She hadn’t seen any indication of a woman’s touch in the house, and the only female she’d run across was the odious Miss Wilson who’d been weeping down in the driveway. Miss Wilson was pretty enough, but she’d been attired in an unadorned day dress, her hair tied with a ribbon, so she was much too plain to be the doxy Veronica was seeking.
Or was she?
Having never previously met a trollop, Veronica had no idea what to look for.
“You’re not spending the night,” he said.
“Why can’t I? No one knows I’m here, and I won’t tell anyone I visited.”
“If no one knows you’re here, then it’s all the more reason you should go. These sorts of juvenile antics have a way of leaking out.”
“Juvenile!” she huffed.
“If word of your jaunt drifted back to your father, I’d have to explain why I allowed you to behave so outrageously. It’s not a conversation I ever intend to have.”
He walked off, which irked her beyond her limit.
“Nicholas!” She stomped her foot to get his attention.
“What?” He whipped around. “Before you say anything, I should like to inform you that you have prevailed on my hospitality, delayed me in the implementation of my own journey, and insulted my character. I’m a tad exasperated.”
“You’ve been an absolute grouch from the second I arrived. You could at least pretend to be glad to see me.”
“I don’t care for theatrics, and I must ask that you not engage in them, or you will soon learn that my patience is short and my temper hot.”
He was glaring as if he didn’t . . . like her, and the notion that he might not was unnerving. Had she been too bold? He was so worldly; she’d assumed he would be thrilled to discover that she was no simpering miss.
What if she’d wrecked everything? Gad, what if he decided she was loose and called off their betrothal?
In a panic, she smiled and sashayed over, offering him a good view of her shapely, swaying hips. He definitely noticed, and she gained some satisfaction from proving that he wasn’t made of stone.
She peered up at him, getting lost in the blue of his eyes.
“Don’t be such a grump.”
“I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind today.”
“Do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think we’re very much alone, and you haven’t tried to kiss me. Not a single time.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there. She held her breath, certain he would proceed.
But instead, he said, “It’s not wise for us to travel down that road.”
“Admit it,” she taunted. “You dream about kissing me.”
“You’re awfully set on
