'Forgive me for interrupting you,' he managed to say. 'If you prefer, I can come back another time…'
'Stop teasing.' Her face seemed to glow with anticipation as she hurried toward him. 'What did the duke have to say?'
'What, not so much as a 'good afternoon'?' He grinned at her. 'You wound me, madam.'
She scowled back at him. 'You are a wretch, my lord, and you delight in tormenting me.'
'Only because I love to watch your eyes shoot those delightful green sparks.'
'What nonsense,' she blustered, but he could see a rosy pink flush steal across the high-arched planes of her cheekbones. She retreated a pace. 'Please tell me what happened. Did you meet with the duke?'
Bainbridge held up his hands and relented. 'All right-I shan't tease you any longer. Yes, I met with His Grace about an hour ago. Wexcombe was not exactly overjoyed at the idea of a compromise, but I think I managed to make him see the wisdom of it.'
'And how did you do that?' she asked, skeptical.
'At first I pointed out that this arrangement would keep both of them content, but he was still determined to have his own way. Then I simply stated that I did not agree with his assessment of the dowager's limitations, that I did not appreciate his high-handed manner in dealing with her, and neither would the ton once I let slip what he had done to his own grandmother.'
'Never say you resorted to such underhanded methods.' The hint of a smile hovered at the corners of her mouth.
He shrugged. 'I did. Wexcombe does not care a fig for what Society thinks of him-he is a duke, after all-but he will go to great lengths to avoid any hint of scandal. He is rather proud.'
'So I had noticed,' she replied with a trace of annoyance. 'How should we proceed from here?'
'Wexcombe has planned a meeting with his bailiff this afternoon, and with the ball at Shering Park this evening, perhaps we had best wait until tomorrow morning. Everyone should be in an amiable mood, and we can settle this issue once and for all. And then…'
'And then-what?' Her gaze slid away from his face. The tip of her pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips.
Bainbridge's mouth went dry.
Tell her the truth, you great oaf. Tell her and regain your sanity!
'Do not tell me, Kit, that you still cringe at the thought of being my mistress,' he heard himself say. 'Is the prospect so unpleasant?' So much for honesty.
Her incredible jade eyes widened. 'N-no,' she stammered. 'Not unpleasant. Merely… unnerving.'
'How so?'
'As I told you yesterday, my lord, I hardly know you.'
'Oh, please, my dear Kit, not another of your virginal protests,' drawled the marquess. 'I thought we were past those.'
'Hardly, sir,' she reproached him. 'I told you I have every intention of fulfilling my portion of our bargain. Indeed, I am resigned to it.'
'Resigned?' He raised an eyebrow. 'How lowering. You do my reputation as a rake no credit, sweet Katherine.'
'I should hope not, my lord. But I am curious… Any number of London beauties must be eager for your company. Is that not so?'
'True,' he admitted. His brow inched upward another notch. What was she getting at?
'Then why me?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'I am no Toast, sir, nor a diamond of the first water. My looks are too… unusual to conform to the standard of English beauty celebrated by society. So what is it about me that prompted you to propose this arrangement, rather than simply agreeing to assist me?'
Tell her.
What could he tell her? My deepest apologies, Mrs. Mallory, but I only pretended to seduce you in order to discover the true nature of your character? God, that disgusted even him, the rake who had never claimed to possess an ounce of principle when it came to the fairer sex. Until now. But he had not pretended his attraction to her, which even now was enough to drive him mad.
Kit waited, gazing at him expectantly.
'You seem to labor under the misconception that you are undesirable,' he replied, choosing his words with care. 'But I fail to see why.'
Her gaze did not waver. 'That does not answer my question, my lord. Is it simply because I am a widow, and therefore fair game?'
'No, although it does add spice to the equation.'
'Ah.' Disappointment clouded her eyes.
'And as for your perceived lack of beauty, Kit, I disagree with you. True, you will never be an English rose, but I think of you more like some exotic flower transplanted from a faraway garden.'
She started. 'I was not fishing for compliments, my lord, I assure you,' she said with an embarrassed laugh.
Bainbridge grinned. 'I am not offering you Spanish coin, Kit. I happen to find the combination of beauty and a strong will infinitely appealing.'
Her laughter faded. 'You do?'
The scent of her perfume drifted past, tantalizing him. He closed the distance between them.
'Let me show you,' he breathed. He tilted her chin up, then leaned down and kissed her.
Everything about her aroused him-the scent of her skin, the soft curls that framed her face, the taste of her lips, the slender span of her waist beneath his hands. God, he didn't want to kiss her so much as devour her. Her mouth parted beneath his assault; her arms wrapped around him, and her body relaxed into his embrace. Every curve and swell seemed to fit so perfectly against him.
She tipped her head back; his lips strayed down her neck until he found the soft hollow at the base of her throat, where her pulse throbbed at a wild, almost frantic tempo. He cupped her breast, and a ragged moan escaped her.
The sound brought Bainbridge back to his senses, however temporarily. Like a man in a dream, he drew back and looked down at her. Kit remained motionless in his arms, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She was his for the taking. Dear God. If he didn't stop himself now, he'd have her propped up against one of the stone urns, her skirts rucked up about her thighs. The very thought sent another dangerous jolt of desire through him. With deliberate care, he released her. She wobbled a bit, then opened her eyes and stared at him.
'Now-never again doubt that I desire you,' he said, his voice rough.
'Nicholas, I-'
Achilles's nervous whinny distracted them. Kit sprang back, a guilty look on her face, as a harried footman came pelting across the folly's stone portico.
'Lord Bainbridge?' The man halted in the doorway, gasping for air. 'My lord?'
With a frown, the marquess stepped forward. 'Yes, what is it, man?'
'His Grace begs you… to come… to the house… at once,' the footman panted.
'What is it?' Kit asked, her eyes huge. 'What is wrong?'
'The dowager duchess,' gulped the footman. 'She has taken a terrible fall down the stairs.'
Chapter Eight
A dark pit seemed to open beneath Kit's feet. Her pulse hammered in her chest. The clammy sheen of perspiration dewed her upper lip. 'W-what?'
'You must come at once,' wheezed the footman.
'Has Wexcombe sent for a physician?' the marquess asked.
