Chapter Three #2
What a delicate creature she was. She stood only as high as his shoulder.
Her chin up, her cheeks wet with rain, tendrils of her hair hanging loose and dripping to her pelisse, she was the loveliest sprite he’d ever seen.
So near her now, as he had not been this morning, he was also focused on the tiny details of her perfection.
She was a picture any portraitist would want to paint.
Fine of bone, pink of cheek, plump of lip, my God.
For her looks alone, she was a woman any man could crave.
But he mustn’t. He shook himself to polite discourse, but thought of not one appropriate word.
She read the menu, and he watched a drop of rain slide down her nape. He ground his teeth, the urge to kiss the back of her throat ringing through him like bells. He closed his eyes a minute to recover his sanity. But when he opened them, she was turning to him, and he knew she would say goodbye.
He could not have it. Not yet. Not while she was so damn wet and he was so wild to put his lips to her, to crush her against him as he had this morning.
He grinned at that. He would like to catch her fresh, not only from the sea, but also from any storm—and yes, even fresh from her bath.
Rogue to think like that. “Terrible weather to be out,” he said like a simpleton. Anything to keep her with him.
“It came upon me in a rush,” she said by explanation, even as she seemed to tear her gaze away from him.
Could she find him attractive? Dare he hope?
She returned to concentrate on the card and gave her dinner order to the clerk. Then she smiled up at Clive, curt and dismissive. “Forgive me, sir. I must retire.”
He turned with her for the stairs—and his next words tumbled from his mouth. “You’ve had quite a day.” He tried to sound jolly, offering her his arm to climb the staircase.
“Getting soaked twice?” She gave a small laugh. She changed her emotions as the situation called for it. At once reticent, the next instant allowing herself a moment of joy. Looping her arm through his, she lifted her wet skirts. “I’ll try to catch more sun tomorrow to make up for it.”
“As would I,” he said, sounding to his own ears like some smitten schoolboy. Bah! What to say? “May Bella and I walk with you in the sun?”
Her doe eyes widened at first in joy, then in the negative. “I walk quickly. Bella could not keep up.”
“We’d love to try, madame. Why not, eh? A little company, especially from those who have saved you from disaster, is a good thing.”
She frowned in feigned dismay. “You are persistent, sir.”
“My middle name,” he affirmed with a nod. “Clive Persistent Davenport.”
She threw back her head to chuckle—and it pleased him that he’d drawn her from her somber view of him. “I know the English. You love to name people, especially small boys with never-ending names. Tell me yours in its entirety.”
“Ha! You have me out. Very well. Clive Allister Throckmorton Persistent Davenport.”
“A mouthful.”
“I don’t use it all often.”
“Wise.” She knitted her brows. “I hope Bella is well.”
“You change the subject.” They reached the top of the stairs. He had little time to engage her for tomorrow.
“I do, sir. How is your daughter?”
“She is well, thank you. She remembers only your red kite and bothers me for one just like it. Did you buy it here in town? In the Lanes, perhaps?”
Delight transformed her face from beautiful to stunning. “Oh, monsieur, please allow me, s’il vous pla?t, to make one for her.” The offer was spontaneous and from a gladdened heart.
Enchantment spread through Clive like good red wine. “That’s very kind of you, madame. Bella would welcome it.”
At the door to her room, they paused.
“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur le…” She tipped her head. “Pardon, I do not know your rank, sir.”
“Marquess.” He downplayed the formalities of his position, but he held with them. “Marquess of Carlisle.”
“Ah, mai oui. Which generation?”
“The eighth.” He pursed his lips. Was she building a case that he was too lofty for her?
“The eighth Marquis de Carlisle,” she said.
“A gentleman, then, of very high esteem. Monsieur le marquis, an honor to meet you.” A hand out in courtly form, she gave him a grand bow of homage.
But her smile was full of a lighter mood than when he’d found her in the foyer.
“Tomorrow, shall we say at eleven, we can meet in the reception room and I will bring all we need to make a new kite?”
He was to meet with Lord Langley in the garden of the Prince’s Pavilion at one. “This will be wonderful. Bella will be very excited.”
“May I call her Bella? That is, if you will allow me to address her by her given name.”
“But of course.” He chuckled, reluctant to let her go, though she must to dry off. “She calls herself Belle, so don’t be surprised.”
“Charming. I will remember. See you at eleven.”
“At eleven.”
She swept inside, and with a final smile from those rosebud-pink lips, she closed her door upon him.
He stood a moment, mesmerized by her petite beauty and good humor. Then he sobered.
Who do you meet, Madame Laurant of the pretty blue eyes and abilities to make kites? More importantly, who are you that you go out without escort and stand in the rain alone at night unit you are drenched and risk your health?