Chapter 5 #2
“Then I must write to your housekeeper with my sincerest apologies,” he replied gravely, “and perhaps the suggestion of a gentler grape.”
She narrowed her eyes. “It was plum. And you were drinking it straight from the bottle and declaring eternal devotion to whichever pagan deity first conceived of trees.”
“A goddess I continue to revere,” he said solemnly. “Particularly when those trees provide such admirable views.”
She laughed, properly this time, with her head tipped back, and the sound of it did something unspeakable to his ribs.
“Pray, cease walking backwards,” he said, smiling despite himself. “You may end as your sister once did.”
“My sister?”
“The former Miss Tolliver, on the memorable occasion she tripped backwards at Lady Malverne’s garden party and fell into the ornamental pond.”
“Ah yes,” she said, turning neatly and slipping her arm through his again. “A most fortunate accident. She secured herself a duke.”
He inclined his head. “Touché.”
They continued along the winding path, though prudence suggested they ought to have turned back long ago. The gravel curved away from the lawn and the cheerful murmur of guests, until Miss Tolliver paused beside a crumbling alcove half-hidden by ivy.
She glanced over her shoulder with an expression that might have been mischief—or invitation—or, most likely, both. “This part of the garden is not intended for guests.”
He hummed and lifted a brow. “Then we are precisely where we ought to be.”
He stepped nearer, maintaining his eyes upon hers. Her expression remained composed, her smile just wicked enough to make a man forget his name, and Jasper knew, with sudden certainty, that he simply must kiss her, or go insane.
She tilted her head as though daring him to try. “If you kiss me, Mr Deverell, I shall assume it is because my lips appear utterly irresistible. But you must not imagine it entitles you to anything further. I am not some wide-eyed debutante in search of a husband.”
He lifted both brows. “Nothing further at all?”
“No further claims upon my person. I shall not be bullied into matrimony—by you or any other charming rogue with quick wit and wandering hands.”
“Wandering hands? When have I ever exhibited such a thing?”
She gave a negligent shrug. “You placed one upon my thigh when we climbed that tree.”
“It was to steady you.”
“It was to steady yourself,” she returned. “And you did not remove it with any particular urgency.”
“I did not realise you observed so closely.”
“Oh, I observe everything.” She spun lightly away from him—damn it. “And I shall never marry simply to satisfy Society’s whims. I would rather be a spinster of magnificent reputation, who drinks brandy in the drawing room and makes wagers, and terrifies polite company well into her seventies.”
He smiled broadly and folded his arms. “Well, in my experience, the most liberated women in London are widows. Particularly the sort who possessed the good sense to marry elderly peers with weak constitutions and excellent fortunes. They live like queens thereafter. No curfews, no chaperones. No consequences at all.”
Miss Tolliver wrinkled her nose. “Ah yes, I have heard the theory. Which young lady hasn’t? Marry a decrepit marquess, let nature take its course, and spend the rest of one’s life in silks and sapphires.”
“The notion has its merits.” He gave a lop-sided smile.
“No doubt. Though the marital bed with a gentleman who removes his teeth beforehand seems a steep price for liberty.”
Jasper barked a laugh.
“And worse,” she continued breezily, “one would be obliged to feign interest in his opinions on trade policy or his digestion, all whilst being relentlessly pawed by hands that creak louder than the floorboards. No, thank you, sir. I should prefer to earn my freedom the lively way.”
“You are a menace, Miss Tolliver.”
She smiled at that. “And you are very charming, Mr Deverell,” she said, stepping another pace away, “but I am not so easily caught.”
He followed her a pace, unfolding his arms. “And I am not so foolish as to try.”
Their eyes met, and for a moment, they were caught in a silent game of cat-and-mouse—before he reached out and caught her lightly by the wrist.
She did not protest, but lifted her brows, as though curious to see what he meant to do with such an advantage. “Aren’t you?”
He was, without a doubt, very foolish indeed. Without fanfare, he drew her flush against him and kissed her.
He had expected restraint, but Miss Tolliver answered him with enough spirit to steal the breath straight from his lungs.
Her lips were soft and tasted faintly of summer fruit, and her tongue was bold—curious and teasing.
She matched him stroke for stroke, their kiss deepening with warmth until the sunlight and gravel path and distant garden party seemed very far away indeed.
Miss Tolliver was a lady, but God help him, she kissed him like a woman.
As quickly as their kiss began, it ended. Miss Tolliver slipped from his grasp, stepping back as though nothing untoward had occurred at all.
“That,” she said lightly, adjusting her gloves, “was a moment. Nothing more.”
“No?” he murmured, dipping his voice to a lower register.
She regarded him through lowered lashes, her smile sweet as honey. “My dear Mr Deverell. You must not imagine every kiss constitutes a promise. Some are merely entertainment.”
“And was I entertaining?”
“Moderately.”
He laughed, though his chest tightened imperceptibly.
She smiled at him, her real smile that pulled dimples at her cheeks. “Good afternoon, sir.”