The Lady Most Willing

“We don’t make anything in the buttery,” he shot back. And then, when her face still did not release its expression of skepticism, he said, “The buttery was where one got a beer. From wooden butts.” He raised a brow. “Satisfied?”

“This was hardly a test.”

“Wasn’t it, though?” he countered. But he felt a smile approaching. It was a little frightening how much he was enjoying himself.

“We Scots are proud of our history,” she admitted.

He gazed longingly at the dried-up old barrel. “I could use a beer right now.”

“Beer? A duke?”

“Bait to which I shall not rise,” he said archly.

She smiled at that.

“I suppose you’ll say it’s too early for spirits of any kind,” he grumbled.

“Not this morning I won’t,” she said with feeling.

He regarded her with curiosity. And admiration.

“Well, let’s see,” she said, ticking off her fingers. “I was kidnapped . . .”

“So was I,” he pointed out.

“. . . thrown into a carriage . . .”

“You have me there,” he acknowledged.

“. . . groped . . .”

“By whom?” he demanded.

“You,” she said, seemingly without ire, “but don’t worry, I got away very quickly.”

“Now see here,” Bret sputtered. He had never claimed to understand the female mind, but he did understand the female body, and there was no way she hadn’t enjoyed the previous night’s kiss every bit as much as he did. “When I kissed you . . .”

“I’m not talking about the kiss,” she said.

He stared at her, flummoxed.

She cleared her throat. “It was when . . . ah . . . Never mind.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” he warned. “You cannot introduce such a topic and then not follow through.”

“In the carriage,” she mumbled. And then: “Why were you in the carriage?”

“It was my carriage,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but the rest of us were in the ballroom.”

He shrugged. “I was tired.” It was true. And bored, too, although he would not tell her that. The Maycotts’ Icicle Ball had been pleasant enough, but he’d really wanted to be home.

“I suppose it was late—” Miss Burns started to say.

“Don’t change the subject,” he cut in.

She didn’t even try to look innocent.

“The groping,” he reminded her.

Her cheeks went every bit as pink as they should. “You were asleep,” she mumbled.

He had groped her while he was asleep? “I’m sure you must be mistaken.”

That got her goat. “You called me Delilah,” she ground out.

“Oh.” He had a sinking suspicion that his cheeks were also going every bit as pink as they should. Which was to say, quite a lot.

“Who’s Delilah?” she asked.

“No one whom you would ever have cause to meet.”

“Who’s Delilah?”

This could not end well. “Surely this is not an appropriate—”

“Who’s Delilah?”

He paused, taking a good look at her face. Miss Burns was lovely with her color high and eyes flashing. His eyes dropped to her lips, and there it was again, that amazing, overwhelming desire to kiss her. It wasn’t an urge so much as a need. He could stop himself if he had to, but oh, what a sad and colorless place the world would be if he did.

“What are you looking at?” she asked suspiciously.

“Are you jealous?” he asked with a slow smile.