“My father and uncles were sailors,” she breezily lied. She was adept at lying; she’d spent her life doing it.
“Tell me their names. Perhaps I know some of them.”
“I’m sure not,” she swiftly said. “From the cut of your evening suit, I’m certain you were quite a bit higher in rank than any of them.”
“From the cut of my clothes? What about your own? You’re not exactly dressed like a pauper yourself.”
She was wearing a red velvet gown, with cap sleeves and an obscenely low neckline. Her corset was laced so tight she could barely inhale, so she was displaying a shocking amount of bosom. Her throat, ears, wrists, and fingers were dripping with red jewelry that matched her gown. The stones were fake, but they looked real.
Fish had styled her hair in an elaborate concoction of curls and braids, with flowers and feathers woven in the soft strands. She appeared rich and glamorous.
“Was that a compliment?” she asked.
“Gad, it was, wasn’t it? I’ll have to guard my wayward tongue or you’ll assume I’m flirting.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“You don’t like flirting?”
“I can’t abide it.”
“What a peculiar female you are. I thought every woman enjoyed flirting.”
“Not me. I never learned how, so I’m not good at it, and it seems to be rife with pitfalls.”
“So you’ve never wed?” he asked.
“No. How about you?”
“No.”
“We’re a miserable pair, aren’t we? But then, who would want us?”
He snorted again. “If a dashing prince rushed up and proposed, would you accept? Or are you completely averse to the entire notion of matrimony?”
“If a prince rode up, I might consider it, but otherwise, I’m content to remain a spinster.”
“That’s the strangest comment I’ve ever heard. What female wouldn’t like to wed? You grow more abnormal by the second.”
“It’s what I’ve always been told: I’m abnormal. What about you? How old are you?”
“I’m thirty this year. And you?”
“Twenty-five. Will you ever break down and permit some debutante to attach a leg-shackle?”
He gave a mock shudder. “I suppose I’ll have to eventually.”
“Your opinion about matrimony is worse than mine.”
“Can you imagine me fettered to a debutante? The very idea leaves me nauseous.”
“You’re a pathetic character, aren’t you? Every fellow like you marries sooner or later, and thirty is on the edge of decrepit.”
“I know.”
“Do you always feel this sorry for yourself?”
“Only since I arrived back from the navy.”
“Have you resigned your commission? Or are you on furlough?”
“I’ve resigned.”
“You’re at loose ends.”
“Yes, my brother died, so I have to take over at home, and it means I’m about to become a gentleman farmer. That prospect leaves me nauseous too.”
“Oh, you are such a baby!” she scolded. “You’ve had an exciting career in the navy, and now, you have a country property to inherit. In my view, your life is perfect. Stop whining.”
“I sound like an ingrate, don’t I?”
“Yes, and ungrateful people annoy me.”
“Then I shall try to mind my manners. We should talk about something more interesting. You, for instance. Tell me more about yourself.”
“I’m so boring that any details would put you to sleep. I find you to be incredibly entertaining though. Let’s stick with you.”
She flashed the smile for which she was renowned. It was a special smile—one Harry had her practice in the mirror—that riveted those who observed it. It made her appear young and vulnerable, and of course, she was very beautiful. It wasn’t vanity to admit it.
She had long, curly, golden-blond hair and big, expressive blue eyes. When she’d been a girl, Harry had dressed her like a homeless waif, as if she was still lost and alone and being forced to beg for alms.
Men were swept up by her mesmerizing allure, and she used it to captivate and enchant. If she chose to flaunt herself, she had a stunning effect, and Luke’s reaction was typical.
They stared forever, and it was very thrilling to endure his potent assessment. He had a powerful focus that tantalized her, that had her wishing he’d never look away, and the result he produced was unsettling.
She wasn’t an innocent miss. Over the years, she’d been kissed occasionally by tedious, vain oafs, so she recognized passion when it was stirring, and it was definitely stirring. She’d never felt anything like it. It seemed as if their bodies were generating sparks, as if the air around them was crackling with energy.
Fish, who’d disgraced herself in numerous torrid flings, swore that human desire could sizzle hot enough to burn a female to ash, but Libby hadn’t believed her. The men in her world were too dreary to ever create any ardent stimulation, so Luke’s attention had her flummoxed.
His gaze dipped to her mouth, and it was obvious he was thinking about kissing her which, on one level, was extremely hilarious. They were strangers, and he hadn’t bothered to supply his surname. Wasn’t it exactly like a man to immediately ponder amour?
Yet on another level, she would deem it perfectly appropriate to be kissed by him. While they’d just crossed paths, there was a delicious perception of lengthy acquaintance. Why shouldn’t he kiss her?
But that sort of rumination was dangerous and absurd.
She knew his kind of gentleman, knew what they expected from a woman like her. There could never be a benefit for her in getting closer.
She’d suffered too many losses in her life, and she was a very gentle soul who bonded with a desperate determination. When a relationship ended—as they always did—she mourned for ages, so she’d built high walls to guard her tender heart, and she never let them be breached.
“Are you sure we haven’t met?” he asked.
“I’m positive.”
“I’m gaping to the point of rudeness.”
“I’m very arrogant,” she said, “so I enjoy your gaping.”
“You look like someone I know, but I can’t figure out who it is.”
“Don’t all British women look alike?
