Chapter Sixteen
Nicholas arrived at the Duke of Winston’s residence at precisely eleven o’clock the next morning.
Not with his curricle this time, but with his coach.
A closed carriage—with a coachman—was the only intelligent choice today.
If he was going to coax Bea into wanting another kiss (and he very much hoped to), he needed her beside him, present—without wind to blame for the trembling in her breath, without a crowd to hide behind, without any confusion about what she was choosing.
She may have pushed him away and gotten angry at him two days ago, but he’d felt the heat in her response at first. He hadn’t imagined it. She had kissed him back.
Of course, if she wished to leave, she would. He would make certain of it. It would be her choice at all times.
But if she stayed, it would be because she wanted to.
She had fled the gardens. Right after he’d told her he wanted her to want to marry him. She’d picked up her skirts, and all but ran from him back into the house. He hadn’t followed her. Instead, he’d sent round a note asking her to accompany him for another ride in the park this afternoon.
She hadn’t answered.
Which he had chosen to interpret as a possibility rather than a refusal.
He would accept an actual refusal the moment she gave it, of course. But silence was merely uncertainty…and uncertainty deserved patience.
So here he was.
The butler took one look at him and nodded him inside without comment.
Nicholas waited in the foyer, glancing once at the wide, sweeping staircase. He expected Bea to descend in an impatient flurry of skirts, her temper leading the way.
She did not disappoint.
She came down the steps dressed for purpose rather than pleasure, wearing a tailored walking gown in a cool, unobtrusive shade of blue, white kid gloves fitted tight to her hands, and bonnet ribbons tied with more determination than grace.
Everything about her said she expected a battle and had dressed accordingly.
Her expression indicated she was already suspicious. Good. Suspicion kept her alert. Alertness made her reactive. And he needed her reactions—every one of them. Especially the breathy, reckless ones.
“Lord Vanover,” she said coolly, her nostrils flaring.
He allowed himself the smallest smile. “Lady Beatrix.”
“Your parents?” he asked politely.
“In the morning room,” she replied. “Busy.”
Of course they were. The duke and duchess were always busy, too busy to notice their daughter’s increasing agitation as she crossed the foyer toward the open door, where his closed coach waited, an invitation she was free to refuse.
He offered his arm. Not stepping closer. Not crowding her. Giving her the space to decide.
She stared at his sleeve long enough that a lesser man might have felt the sting.
But she took it…eventually.
Her fingers brushed his sleeve, light, reluctant, her touch sparking through him like a flare.
“Well then,” she said, resigned but trying hard not to look flustered, “let us get this over with.”
Perfect. Exactly the tone he wanted, controlled disdain masking something considerably warmer.
The butler opened the door, and they stepped outside.
They descended the front steps together, Nicholas unhurried, utterly decisive. The vehicle waited at the curb. She faltered for the barest fraction of a step. She’d expected the curricle.
He noticed, of course. The flare of irritation she tried to smother. The faint tightening at the corner of her mouth.
Still, he said nothing.
At the street, one of the footmen sprang down and opened the door. Nicholas gestured her inside, his hand firm at her elbow, as if the matter were already settled.
She hesitated. Just a beat. Long enough to imagine the interior. Long enough to imagine the two of them inside it. Alone.
Nicholas didn’t speak. He didn’t reach for her.
He let the silence hold, allowing her time to choose.
After a moment, Beatrix lifted her chin and climbed in.
He followed, closing the door behind him with a soft, definitive click. If she asked to stop, he would stop. If she asked to leave, the door would open again just as easily.
He was many things, but never a man who took what was not freely offered.
Bea sat opposite him, spine straight, arms folded as if she were about to question him before a jury.
“You didn’t bring the curricle,” she said at last.
“No.”
“Astonishing,” she muttered. “I could have sworn you enjoyed showing it off.”
“Oh, I do.” He relaxed back into the seat, allowing himself to appear unhurried. “But today’s excursion required something…different.”
She arched a brow. “What an ominous choice of words.”
He flashed her a smile. “I prefer to think of it as promising.”
She narrowed her eyes—there it was, that spark of suspicion—and Nicholas had to bite back a wider smile. The woman was a battlefield, all tactical positioning and sharp defenses, but God, she was exhilarating to spar with.
The coach lurched into motion.
Bea braced herself with a gloved hand at her side, her expression betraying a very faint awareness that she was in an enclosed space with a man who had whispered seduction into her ear quite recently.
She wasn’t comfortable. Not because she mistrusted him, he realized. Because she mistrusted herself.
Good.
“About our destination,” she said, brisk and overly composed, “I’ve decided a ride through the park would be…unproductive. I think we should go…elsewhere.”
Nicholas lifted a brow. He should have known she’d been planning something. “Decided, have you?”
“Yes.” Her chin tipped up. “Hillary House. Lord Hillary is hosting a political salon this afternoon.”
Ah. Of course he was.
Nicholas let his gaze linger on her a moment before answering. “He is indeed. Though I’m not certain it’s customary to escort a lady one is courting directly into a room full of political observers.”
She met his gaze without blinking. “Then let us dispense with the notion that you are courting me.”
A corner of his mouth curved. “That seems premature.”
Her eyes flashed. “So does another visit to the park.”
Well played.
“Very well,” he said easily. “Let us be practical. A brief turn through the park—long enough to satisfy convention—and then I shall deliver you straight into Lord Hillary’s salon.”
“I would prefer to go directly—”
“—to the salon,” he finished, unfazed. “Yes, I know.” His smile turned knowing. “But even the most determined plans benefit from a touch of diplomacy.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely.”
She waited a beat. Then, tight-lipped, she said, “Fine. But make it brief.”
“As brief as you like,” he said, already settling back against the seat. “You are, after all, the one in a hurry.”
She shot him a glare that promised future retribution.
Nicholas grinned at her again.
And then they were off. Park chosen. Coach enclosed. Bea alert, irritated…and entirely too aware of him.
Excellent.
Not a quarter hour later, Nicholas’s coach had made it through the London traffic and rolled through the gates of Hyde Park.
As the wheels crunched over gravel, Nicholas watched Bea in the shifting morning light—her posture rigid, her gloves twisting in her lap. She appeared to be full of arguments she refused to voice.
She was fighting herself. He could practically see it.
Good. Let her fight. Let her resist. The trick, after all, was simple. If Bea was to kiss him again, it must be her idea.
He didn’t need to press. He didn’t need to chase. He simply needed to make her want him.
So Nicholas turned his head, looked out toward the bright sweep of the Row, and said nothing at all.
He could feel her looking at him.
Perfect.
Nicholas glanced at her. Then he turned to look out the window again, a man settling comfortably into mischief. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of kissing you again.”
“I don’t believe you.” Her voice was sharp.
“You needn’t fault yourself, you know. I think it was all too much for you…too soon.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
He leaned back on an elbow and shrugged one shoulder in the most nonchalant way he could muster. “I realized something. I was perhaps…too quick to praise our kiss.”
Beatrix blinked, utterly nonplussed. “What?”
“Well.” He adopted a thoughtful tone. “It wasn’t entirely your fault, of course. First attempts are rarely exemplary.”
Her jaw dropped. “First attempts?”
“Kissing is a skill like any other,” he continued helpfully. “One must practice to truly excel. So, you oughtn’t feel discouraged if your first time was…well. Adequate.”
“Adequate?” she echoed, voice strangling itself.
“Yes. Perfectly serviceable. Pleasant enough. But—” He gave a sympathetic shrug. “One can hardly expect brilliance out of the gate.”
Bea stared at him, her eyes shooting daggers. No doubt she was deciding whether to throttle him or set him aflame.
“I’ll forgive you, naturally,” he added. “Inexperience is nothing to be ashamed o—”
He didn’t finish.
Because she launched at him.
Not delicately. Not ladylike. She seized him by the lapels of his coat, hauled him forward with startling strength, and crushed her mouth to his in a kiss that had nothing of innocence in it.
Nicholas made a low, unguarded sound—half surprise, half delight—before his instincts surged, hot and unquestioning. He kissed her back with immediate intensity, hands sliding to her waist as he pulled her across the space between them.
She tasted furious…and delicious.
Her fingers tightened in his coat, tugging him closer still, and Nicholas responded with a deep, possessive groan. He shifted, guided her, and in one fluid motion drew her onto the velvet seat beneath him, bracing his weight above her without crushing her.
She gasped, and he took advantage of the opportunity, sliding his tongue against hers—slow, coaxing. Her back arched. Her hands moved up to clutch his shoulders. Heat curled low in his groin.
Hell. She was magnificent.
He dragged his mouth from hers only long enough to kiss along her jaw, then lower—his breath warm against the delicate skin of her throat. “Is this adequate?” she demanded, breathless.
He smiled against her throat. “It’s a start.”
“Oh, I’ll show you a start—”
But Nicholas didn’t let her finish. He caught her mouth again—slower this time, as if he meant to make her feel the difference between “serviceable” and ruin. His lips moved over hers in a measured glide, then deepened, coaxing a sound from her that went straight to his cock.
Bea answered with a rough little noise of her own, fingers fisting in his coat as she tilted her chin and met him without flinching—no hesitation, no doubt, only the fierce insistence of a woman who refused to be outdone.
He tasted her on his tongue—sweet and sharp and furious—until his control frayed at the edges. His hand slid up her side, thumb stroking along her ribs beneath the line of her stays, and her breath hitched hard against his mouth.
“There,” he murmured against her lips, voice wrecked. “That’s better.”
She kissed him again as if to shut him up properly.
Nicholas smiled against her mouth—aching, thrilled, undone by her—and kissed her harder.
She gasped, and he followed that sound, tracing the new line of her throat with his lips, letting his breath whisper heat against her skin.
“Adequate?” she demanded again, voice trembling with both anger and desire.
“A tragic miscalculation,” he murmured.
“You are impossible,” she whispered. Her breath caught. He felt it—everything—every tremor, every small intake of breath.
“And you,” he breathed at her ear, a shudder racking his body, “are astonishing.”
And then, just as quickly as it had begun, she pushed him away, rolled out from under him, and moved back to the opposite seat. “Oh, you are a complete rogue!”
“What? What do you mean?” He blinked at her, still quite undone by the kiss and the alacrity with which she had ended it.
Her eyes narrowed. “You did that on purpose…baiting me into kissing you.”
A sly smile touched the corner of his lips. “Oh, come now. You wanted to…a little…you’re far too intelligent to have been fooled.”
Bea sat there contemplating his words for a beat. Then she took a deep breath, the intense scowl back on her face. “Blast. You’re right. I am far too astute to blame all of this on you.”
He couldn’t help his laugh. God. She was refreshingly honest. It was not a trait he encountered much as a politician.
“You stay over there,” she insisted, pointing at where he sat, across from her. “There will be no more kissing.”
He bit his lip but remained on the opposite seat, where he adjusted his clothing.
Bea did the same, righting her coiffure and smoothing her skirts. “Now, I’d like to go to Lord Hillary’s salon,” she informed him as if they had not just been passionately kissing moments earlier.
“If you insist.” Nicholas knocked on the top of the coach, signaling to the coachman to change course.
“I do insist.” She folded her arms across her chest and didn’t speak another word until they reached their destination.