Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons #4)(10)

Jonathan sucked in his breath as the spirited vixen who’d dealt rather handily with Lord Whitby a short while ago revealed herself. Here, in the closeness of his carriage, he could appreciate that which he’d not noted a short while ago.

Her green gaze, the color of the richest emeralds, the fiery crimson curls piled high atop her head, and a smattering of freckles along her high cheek-bones. “You, my lord, have something I want,” she breathed.

Which was rather good for him, because he rather wanted her as well. A recalcitrant red curl tumbled free from the precarious arrangement of her locks. He followed the path of that captivating strand as it bounced and then fell, nestled in the slight gap in her cloak, between her breasts. Jonathan fixed his gaze on that crimson curl, never more jealous of a slip of hair than in that moment.

He reached out and caught the siren’s lock. He raised it to his eyes, wishing it were day so the sun could bathe her in its light and illuminate the vibrancy of the fiery shade of red. His body hardened as he considered his good fortune this evening.

The fiery beauty slapped at his hand, and the curl fell from his fingers. She lurched back in her seat, eyes wide like great, big emerald saucers. “Are you attempting to kiss me, my lord?”

The shocked disgust underscoring those few words jerked Jonathan from the haze of desire that had engulfed him. He angled his head. “Would you like me to?” Because he rather hoped her answer was in fact; ‘yes, that and more, my lord’.

The green of her eyes darkened nearly black jade. “You are mad, my lord,” she hissed.

His grin widened at her refreshingly honest reaction. “Is that a no, then?”

She slapped him.

His head snapped back, the resounding crack from her solidly dealt blow rang in his ears like the church bells on Sunday.

He rubbed his cheek and flexed his jaw. Goodness, she was a bloodthirsty wench. Perhaps it had been Whitby who’d needed saving after all.

Jonathan folded his arms across his chest, intrigued as to what the fiery-eyed beauty should want, if not a place in his bed. He waved a hand. “Well, then, Miss…?” Her lips set at a mutinous line. Ah, so she didn’t intend to tell him her name. Very well, in time then. “Miss, just miss, then. You wished to speak with me about something you want?” Something which unfortunately is not my kiss and hands upon your person.

She trailed the tip of her tongue over the seam of her lips. He noted the telltale sign of her nervousness, and a desire to know what brought a gently reared lady outside the Hell and Sin Club filled him. His intrigue doubled.

“Rosecliff Cottage,” her soft whisper cut into his wondering.

He angled his head, still studying the bow-shaped red lips that begged to be kissed.

Her shoulders straightened in a way that Wellington himself would have admired. She jabbed a finger in his direction. “You, sir, have taken my cottage and I would see it returned.”

Her words registered, and perplexity quashed his desire. “Rosecliff Cottage?”

He had a number of properties flung all over England. A manor in Kent. An old estate more castle than anything else in Devonshire. There wasn’t, however, a single cottage amidst all his properties. He stretched his arms out and rested them along the back of his seat. “I assure you, miss, I’ve no Rosecliff Cottage.”

Her eyes narrowed in a menacing fashion, and even through the near impenetrable slits sparks of fury shot from their fathomless depths. She jabbed that same digit in his direction. “I do not care to be lied to, my lord.”

Jonathan frowned. He’d had enough of the tart-mouthed miss and her insulting accusations. He leaned across the seat, so a mere hairsbreadth separated them, and their breaths mingled as one. “Take care, miss, I do not take slights upon my honor lightly.” He’d had his fill of reproachful words and disapproving glances at his meeting with Patrina and Mother earlier that day. He certainly didn’t need to tolerate this one’s ill opinion—even if she possessed a beauty to rival Aphrodite. “Now,” he reached across her and shoved the carriage door open. “If you’ve nothing more than insults and confounded talk about cottages I do not own to share, then I’d ask you to take your leave.”

With their bodies’ nearness, he detected her swift inhale. Her throat bobbed up and down.

She glanced over to the opening, and then back to him. “I cannot go out there,” she bit out.

He hesitated a moment, then pulled the door closed, eyeing her with even greater interest. Yes, her tones cultured and clipped were those that belonged to a refined lady, and yet…refined ladies did not wander these particular streets and demand to speak to gentlemen about matters of business. Jonathan pulled out his watchfob and consulted the time. Nor did refined young ladies go out, unchaperoned at two o’clock in the morning.

She seemed to follow his unspoken recriminations for she inched forward in her seat. “Rosecliff Cottage,” she repeated.

He clicked his timepiece closed and stuffed it inside his jacket. “Miss,” he said, not bothering to bury his exasperation. “I do not know what—”

“You won it,” she blurted. “In a game of faro.” Her brow furrowed. “Or whist.” Her lips tightened. “Regardless of the game, you sat across from my brother, and he mistakenly wagered Rosecliff Cottage. I’d like it back. Please,” she added almost as an afterthought.