As the Devil Dares (Capturing the Carlisles #3)(11)

“Just Robert,” he corrected. He hated that appellation, preferring to make his own mark away from the shadow of the title. “Or Carlisle, if you prefer. There’s no room for courtesies in business.” Or in war. And he had the sinking feeling he’d just stumbled unwittingly into the fray.

“Carlisle,” she repeated distastefully, nearly making him laugh with how evident her dislike of him was. Not that it mattered what she thought of him. Certainly, an amiable relationship would make the season easier for both of them, but he’d walk through the flames of hell to prove himself if he had to. “Do you take the same position as my father? That business is the realm of men and that ladies should do nothing more taxing than watercolors?”

“I don’t believe that’s what your father thinks,” he murmured, remembering Winslow’s words about fulfilling his late wife’s wishes to turn their daughters into ladies. And sympathizing immensely with the man’s frustrations, now that he’d met his daughter.

“Do you?” she pressed.

He couldn’t help a twitch of his lips at her doggedness. “One doesn’t hold that view among the Carlisle women and live a long life.”

The quick narrowing of her eyes told him she wasn’t satisfied with his answer. “Do you believe that?”

He took a slow step toward her, inexplicably drawn to the fight in her. Like a moth to a flame, he was unable to stop himself, even though he knew the fire would most likely burn. “I believe, Miss Winslow,” he clarified quietly but firmly, wanting no mistake between them on this point, “that ladies are capable of holding their own against gentlemen in nearly every endeavor—”

“Nearly every?” she echoed.

Good Lord. Was the Hellion a reformer, too? The more he learned about her, the more he realized exactly how monumental the task was that Winslow had given him to find her a husband.

“Nearly every,” he repeated, thinking of all the antics he and his brothers had committed during their reign of terror. Some of those were certainly not fit for ladies. Or most men. “Including business. I’ve no doubt that you would make a fine partner.”

That surprised her, based on the flicker in her green eyes. “Well, then you concede—”

“But I would be a better one.”

With that, he stunned her, and long enough that he was able to take another step to close the distance between them, remove the glass from her hand, and set it aside before she decided to fling its contents at him. Which would be a true waste of fine bourbon.

“I have no intention of surrendering this opportunity,” he told her frankly. Directness seemed to garner more of her respect than subtlety, so he’d gladly oblige. And found it surprisingly refreshing to be able to be so blunt with a woman. “Not even to you.”

Neither of them moved in the silence that followed that declaration, both unwilling to back down.

As they faced each other, he noted that they were almost evenly matched for height. She barely had to tilt her head back to look up at him, her lips very nearly level with his…those same lips that even now twisted tightly together in an aggravated grimace. What would it taste like, that sensuous mouth of hers that reminded him of a ripe cherry, all dark red and juicy? Inexplicably tart and sweet at the same time? Or would it have the bite of a poison apple?

“Then you’re going to have a difficult task ahead of you, I’m afraid,” she whispered, and God help him, he leaned in to catch each word.

“Not so difficult,” he countered, his deep voice far huskier than he’d intended. But the hellcat had him saying all kinds of things he didn’t intend, including, “You’re beautiful.”

Her lips parted in surprise. He nearly chuckled as he stared at her. For once, he’d left her speechless.

Risking a slap, yet unable to stop himself, he reached to touch one of the ebony tendrils framing the side of her face and rubbed the lock between his thumb and forefinger. His gut tightened at the smooth feel of it. Like black silk. Which immediately made him wonder if her bare skin would feel just as silky beneath his hands.

Her breath hitched, and her wide eyes dropped to his mouth, lingering there on his lips.

Did the minx want him to kiss her? Those lips, that hair…How many men had succumbed to her spell and done just that? And how many hadn’t survived?

“Intelligent and sharp,” he murmured.

She stood perfectly still beneath his touch, except for a nervous swallow that undulated softly in her throat and had him wanting to place his lips right there against her neck to feel it. And against the pulse he could see racing in the hollow at her collarbone even now. Was it arousal that had her senses alert, her pulse racing? Or fury?

Shamelessly, he didn’t care which. Even now she had him longing to take far more intimate touches than the mere stroking of her hair that he was so brazenly stealing.

“And an heiress,” he murmured. “What man could resist?”

She blinked, breaking the spell. “An heiress?” she repeated, her breathless voice evidence that she’d been affected by his caress. “Is that what you think?”

“Of course.” What would she do if he dared to trace his thumb over her bottom lip? Would this hellcat sigh with pleasure or sink her teeth into his flesh in attack?

“But didn’t Papa tell you?” A throaty laugh of surprise fell from her. “I have no dowry.”