It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(45)

Remembering his creative exposition on the subject of purple-spotted dingy-dippers, Lillian gave a little huff of amusement. She had always considered Westcliff an utterly humorless man…and in that, she had misjudged him. “I thought you never lied,” she said.

His lips twitched. “Given the options of seeing you become ill at the dinner table, or lying to get you out of there quickly, I chose the lesser of two evils. Do you feel better now?”

“Better…yes.” Lillian realized that she was resting in the crook of his arm, her skirts draped partially over one of his thighs. His body was solid and warm, perfectly matched to hers. Glancing downward, she saw that the fabric of his trousers had molded firmly around his muscular thighs. Unladylike curiosity awakened inside her, and she clenched her fingers against the urge to slide her palm over his leg. “The part about the dingy-dipper was clever,” she said, dragging her gaze up to his face. “But inventing a Latin name for it was positively inspired.”

Westcliff grinned. “I always hoped my Latin would be good for something.” Shifting her a little, he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and glanced at his watch. “We’ll return to the dining hall in approximately a quarter hour. By that time the calves’ heads should be removed.”

Lillian made a face. “I hate English food,” she exclaimed. “All those jellies and blobs, and wiggly puddings, and the game that is aged until by the time it’s served, it is older than I am, and—” She felt a tremor of amusement run through him, and she turned in the half circle of his arm. “What is so amusing?”

“You’re making me afraid to go back to my own dinner table.”

“You should be!” she replied emphatically, and he could no longer restrain a deep laugh.

“Pardon,” came Daisy’s voice from nearby, “but I am going to take this opportunity to make use of the…the…oh, whatever the polite word is for it, I have no idea. I will meet you at the entrance of the dining hall.”

Westcliff withdrew his arm from around Lillian, glancing at Daisy as if he had temporarily forgotten her presence.

“Daisy—” Lillian said uncomfortably, suspecting that her younger sister was inventing an excuse to leave them alone together.

Ignoring her, Daisy departed with an impish grin and a wave, slipping through the French doors.

As Lillian sat with Westcliff in a spill of shifting torchlight, she experienced a pang of nervousness. Although there might have been a dearth of rare hybrid butterflies outside, the ones in her stomach more than made up for it. Westcliff turned to face her more fully, one arm braced along the back of the cane settee.

“I spoke with the countess earlier today,” he said, a smile still lurking at the corners of his lips.

Lillian was slow to respond, trying desperately to push away the image that had suddenly appeared in her mind, of his dark head bending over hers, his tongue penetrating the softness of her mouth…“About what?” she asked dazedly.

Westcliff responded with an eloquently sardonic glance.

“Oh,” she murmured. “You must mean my…my request for her sponsorship…”

“Are we calling it a request?” Westcliff reached out to tuck a strand of loose hair neatly behind her ear. His fingertip brushed the outer edge, following the curve to the soft pad of her earlobe. “As I recollect, it bore a strong resemblance to extortion.” He fingered the delicate lobe, his thumb smoothing over the tingling surface. “You never wear earrings. Why not?”

“I…” Suddenly she wasn’t breathing properly. “My ears are very sensitive,” she managed. “It hurts to clamp them with earbobs…and the thought of piercing them with a needle…” She stopped with a broken inhalation as she felt the tip of his middle finger investigating the shell of her ear, tracing the fragile inner structure. Westcliff let his thumb brush over the taut line of her jaw and the vulnerable softness beneath her chin, until she felt hot color spreading over her cheeks. They were sitting so close…it must be that he could smell her perfume. That was the only explanation for his loverlike touch on her face.

“Your skin is like silk,” he murmured. “What were we talking about?…Oh yes, the countess. I managed to persuade her to sponsor you and your sister for the next season.”

Lillian’s eyes widened in astonishment. “You did? How? Did you have to bully her?”

“Do I strike you as the kind of man who would bully his sixty-year-old mother?”

“Yes.”

A low laugh vibrated in his throat. “I have methods other than bullying,” he informed her. “You just haven’t seen them yet.”

There was an implication in his words that she couldn’t quite identify …but it filled her with a tingle of anticipation. “Why did you persuade her to help me?” she asked.

“Because I thought I might enjoy inflicting you on her.”

“Well, if you’re going to make me sound like some sort of plague—”

“And,” Westcliff interrupted, “I felt obligated to make amends after my rough handling of you this morning.”

“It wasn’t all your fault,” she said reluctantly. “I suppose I might have been somewhat provoking.”

“Somewhat,” he agreed dryly, his fingertips sliding behind her ear to the satiny edge of her hairline. “I should warn you that my mother’s consent to the arrangement is not unconditional. If you push her too far, she’ll balk. Therefore, I advise you to try to behave in her presence.”