Chapter 15 #3
“You think this dress is more flattering?” she asked again, interrupting his study. Tristan jerked his gaze back up to her face, unsettled. It was one thing to recognize a splendid bosom, and another thing to be caught staring like an uncouth boy.
“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s quite the loveliest dress I’ve ever seen you wear.”
She smiled in pleased surprise. “No more umbrella?”
His jaw tightened for a moment in chagrin. What had possessed him to say such a thing, when he’d guessed from the first time he saw her that she might be a siren? “Not a bit. I have already confessed I was wrong to say such a thing. It was unpardonably rude.”
Her merriment faded. “Then why did you?” Her tone was curious, but the question itself carried a note of reproach that pricked his conscience. He knew better than to insult a lady; the fact that there was something about Joan Bennet that tormented and provoked him beyond all reason was no excuse.
“Because I am a rude, unmannered lout,” he said, trying to disguise an honest reply behind a flippant air.
She pursed her lips. “That’s pissing more than you drank.”
Tristan’s eyebrows shot up in delight. “Such language from a lady!”
“I’m sure you’ve heard far worse,” she retorted. “But . . . please don’t tell my aunt I said it. It slipped out before I could stop myself.”
“What a clanker! You enjoyed saying it. Nevertheless,” he added as she glared at him, “your secret is safe with me. I like a woman with dash.”
“Is that why you act like a rude, unmannered lout—to turn away anyone who hasn’t got dash?”
“No. Women with dash are simply drawn to my rude behavior, and as I like their sort better than any other, I have no motive to change.”
“Fast women,” she scoffed, “and scapegraces like my brother.”
“Your brother is quite the scapegrace,” he agreed.
“My mother blames you for all his wild behavior.”
His mouth flattened. “How gratifying,” he said curtly. “Quite a feather in my cap, corrupting the scion of such an estimable family.”
Miss Bennet regarded him thoughtfully, not put off at all. “Oh, I know Douglas would be dreadful even without your corrupting influence. Still, I think even he has better manners than to call a woman ugly to her face.”
“I never called you ugly,” he said at once. “I insulted your dress, not your face.”
She made a noise suspiciously like a snort. “It was hard to tell the difference.”
“There is a vast difference.” His gaze slid over her complexion, as fresh as new cream.
Her lips were as pink and ripe as they’d been at the Malcolm ball, and he tried not to think about how they had tasted.
Her eyes weren’t snapping sparks at him now, but he feared the open, honest look in them even more.
“I would never insult your face,” he said, only half aloud.
“I never could. You’d hidden everything lovely about yourself behind ridiculous hairstyles and unflattering dresses, and that was what I insulted. Not you at all.”
Her lips parted and her eyes grew round. “Thank you,” she said softly. “That was nearly a compliment.”
It had been one. He didn’t dare say anything else; his thoughts were straying down dangerous paths as it was.
The frightening truth was that Joan Bennet grew more and more attractive every time he saw her.
She smelled delicious. She made him laugh.
She provoked him and teased him and dominated his thoughts until he would swear she was a sorceress, bent on driving him mad.
Her mouth still taunted him to kiss her again.
And now that she’d got a decent dress that showed off her bosom and her waist and made him imagine her long legs wrapped around his hips . . .
He cleared his throat. “Do you want to learn to throw a punch or not?”
She heaved a great sigh. “I don’t think I need to.”
Sighing made her bosom plump up. He curled his hands into loose fists and raised them to fighting position. “You should know how. Hands like this.” She rolled her eyes but raised her hands to mirror his. “Now, hit me.”
“What?” she exclaimed, lowering her hands. “No!”
“You’ve already done it once. Hit me again, like this.” At slow speed he extended his right hand in a jab.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Tristan laughed. “You won’t.”
“I did before,” she reminded him with a whiff of pride.
“Because you caught me off guard. You won’t hurt me. Imagine it’s Douglas here in my place.”
Some of the fire came back into her expression. “Very well.” She punched him in the arm.
“Not there, in my face,” he said in exasperation. “You’ll never dissuade an impertinent man that way.” She scowled and tried again. Tristan turned his head away and received only a glancing blow on the jaw. “Better, but you must strike faster, to surprise him.”
“I can’t surprise you when you’re telling me to punch you,” she said through her teeth.
He grinned. “But you want to punch me, don’t you?
You think I deserve it, don’t you? You long to crack my jaw or break my nose—“ She threw another punch and he dodged, taking it on his shoulder.
“Almost, almost!” he said, enjoying this.
Her eyes positively glittered now, and her cheeks were flushed.
He wondered if she found this as arousing as he did. “Try harder. Step into it.”
“I am!” She swung again, this time directly at his nose.
Instinctively he caught her fist in his hand, then he caught the rest of her as the momentum of her punch carried her forward.
For a moment neither moved. He could see her pulse beating at the base of her throat.
Her rapid breath was the only sound in the room.
Her eyes were more golden than ever, wide and round as she stared up at him.
There was an odd roaring in his ears. All he had to do was lower his head and his mouth would meet her soft, rosy lips, already parted in expectation.
All he had to do was let his hand slide around her waist and she would be in his arms, her glorious bosom against his chest. All he had to do . . .
With a jerk she stepped backward. “I think that counts as a hit.”
His hands fell to his sides. It did feel as though she’d landed a direct hit to some part of him. “Yes. This time.”
She wet her lips. “I don’t think there needs to be another time, Lord Burke.”
“If you wish,” he murmured. “Joan.”
She started at the sound of her name. “That’s very familiar!”
“You’ve already accused me of being uncouth and unmannered. You might as well leave off the pretense of decorum and call me by name, too.”
“How very modern. I’m sure I don’t deserve such an honor.” She smiled and batted her lashes, though her blush gave away her true feelings. When Joan grew uncomfortable, he noticed, she acted like a fluttery female, with giggles and simpering smiles.
In spite of himself a wicked smile curved his mouth. “A shilling if you call me Tristan.”
“I don’t need your shilling.”
“You might. I seem to recall we have a wager.”
The color bloomed in her cheeks again, but instead of denying it, she said, “You haven’t won anything yet.”
He nodded. That was right: he hadn’t won yet. But he would, and damn the consequences. “Would you care to go driving tomorrow?”
“That is taking your obligation to my brother far too seriously,” she said. Unless he missed his guess, her teeth were clenched behind her smile.
“The question had nothing to do with your brother. Would you go driving with me?” he repeated.
“Where, my lord?” She kept wetting her lips, and it was tormenting him.
His mouth quirked and he tilted his head toward her. “Where would you like to go, Joan?”
“Oh—well—” Her name seemed to disconcert her completely. He ought to use it more often. “Anywhere but the park,” she blurted out.
A half-remembered saying about the road to hell floated through his mind.
He’d intended to drive around the park. That was the normal way to pay a woman attention, wasn’t it?
Instead she surprised him yet again. “Not the park,” he said thoughtfully.
“A challenge. I shall have to think of some unusual, entertaining destination.”
She appeared to reconsider. She gave a trill of nervous laughter, her gaze darting to the door again. “I didn’t mean it to be a challenge. I just think it’s so dreadfully dull and ordinary to drive around the park like horses in the ring at Astley’s.”
He laughed. “How right you are. We shan’t be dull or ordinary, then. Perhaps tomorrow is too soon; I must have time to deliberate. To think of something . . . exciting.”
“I didn’t agree to go with you!”
“Oh?” He raised one brow. “You didn’t refuse, either. Do I need to . . .” His gaze dipped again, first to her lips and then to her bosom. “Must I persuade you?”
For a moment she paused, as if she’d understood exactly what he meant and was considering provoking him to do it.
For a moment, Tristan allowed himself to think of pulling her into his arms and kissing her until she said yes.
Hell, he ought to have done it earlier, when she almost fell into his arms. As much as he told himself this was just a passing urge that would go away if he could only keep away from her, he couldn’t seem to follow his own good sense for even a few minutes around her.
Perhaps he just ought to kiss her and be done with it.
“How could I refuse such a courteous threat—I mean, request? I would be delighted.” She curtsied. “Until tomorrow—or rather, whenever something interesting occurs to you, Lord Burke.”
“Call me Tristan,” he said. “Until then, Joan.” He bowed and walked out of the room. It was time to make his escape before he lost his mind and whisked her into his arms to see if her skin tasted as sweet as her mouth.