To Love and to Loathe (The Regency Vows #2)(23)

“Believe it or not,” he said after a moment, his voice a trifle uneven, “I didn’t actually come here for this.”

She leaned back slightly, breaking the contact between their skin, and arched a skeptical brow at him. “You came to my room at night after everyone was abed for innocent purposes?”

“Well,” he hedged, “not entirely innocent, perhaps. But I didn’t think we’d dive right into the main course this evening.”

She untangled herself from him, creating some much-needed space between them on the settee. She couldn’t speak rationally—couldn’t think rationally—when he was so close to her, invading all of her senses. The settee, however, was only so big, so the foot of space she managed to create between them was hardly insurmountable. Still, it was better than nothing.

“What was this, then?” she asked, trying to inject her usual imperious note into her voice. “An appetizer?”

His mouth quirked up in amusement, his eyes crinkling a bit at the corners. “Something like that.”

She preferred this version of Willingham so much that it scared her. While the public version—the flirt, the rake, the seducer—possessed charm in abundance, as well as the most well-tied cravats of any gentleman of the ton (and, as any lady knows, a well-tied cravat is nothing to take lightly), there was something brittle about him. He was all flash and no substance.

This version, however—the private Willingham—was far more dangerous. His golden hair was mussed from her hands, and his cheeks were appealingly flushed. His loose shirt had shifted enough for her to see the faintest hint of hair on his chest, and she was determinedly not looking any lower than that, lest she see something that would distract her completely.

She realized that she was… enjoying herself. The man was insufferable 95 percent of the time, of course, but there was something to be said for getting to see him like this, unguarded and relaxed. It was perhaps for the best that he had called a halt to the proceedings—she had responded to his kiss more passionately than she’d expected, and she needed to settle herself a bit before taking things further.

It was only for the next fortnight, she reminded herself somewhat sternly. She could enjoy it while it lasted, but then it would be done. She felt a slight pang of uncertainty at this thought, but surely two weeks would be sufficient time for them to indulge in and then dispel the strange attraction that coursed between them.

Given the uneasiness of her thoughts, she thought it best to be rid of Willingham as quickly as possible for the evening. “Well,” she said lazily, stretching, falling back on her old tricks. And, sure enough, Willingham’s gaze dropped to her bosom, just as she had intended. She arched her back for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. “If that’s the best you can manage for this evening, I suppose I’d better send you on your way. Disappointing, but hardly surprising.”

Disappointing, of course, was the last word she could honestly use to describe that kiss—but nowhere in her agreement with Willingham had she promised him honesty.

Much to her chagrin, however, Willingham glanced up, met her eyes once more, and appeared anything but chastened. Instead, he looked even more amused than he had a moment before—appreciative, to be sure, but definitely amused, as though he knew precisely what she was doing, and bowed to a worthy opponent.

“Perhaps the critiques I recently received were entirely fair after all,” he agreed mournfully.

“Well,” she said briskly, refusing to reward him with a smile, much as her mouth had a mind of its own and seemed desperate to curve upward, “I shall have to wait until another evening to pass judgment on that. Your efforts were reasonably satisfactory.”

“O, fair maiden,” he proclaimed, clutching at his chest dramatically even as he rose. “Have ever such flattering words fallen on mine ears?”

“Do go away, Willingham,” she said crossly, sorely tempted to give him a satisfying kick in the shin—or somewhere rather more sensitive. “If you’re not going to make yourself useful to me, please leave me in peace.”

He dropped his hand to his side and, reaching down, pulled her to her feet. The movement was unexpected, and she stumbled slightly as she tried to gain her footing, finding herself suddenly leaning against him rather intimately. All traces of laughter had vanished from his face, and he was looking at her in a way that made her feel hot and flustered and entirely too self-conscious. “Diana,” he said in a low voice that did unspeakable things to certain unspeakable parts of her person.

“Yes?” she asked breathlessly.

He paused. Leaned closer. Diana’s eyelids fluttered downward.

“Your efforts were reasonably satisfactory as well,” he said in a low voice, his breath warm against her cheek.

And, with that, Diana lost all reason entirely and, seizing the closest weapon at hand—her half-drunk glass of wine—proceeded to fling its contents into his face.

It had, she later reflected, been a very trying evening, but the sight of the Marquess of Willingham blinking at her incredulously with claret dripping down his face made it all entirely worthwhile.





Nine




Breakfast the next morning was a lively affair.

The remainder of Jeremy’s houseguests were due to arrive that afternoon, but the party had already grown to a respectable size of a dozen in the past twenty-four hours. One late arrival the night before had been Lord Julian Belfry, whom Jeremy had invited on a whim and hadn’t entirely expected to come.