The Gift of Love (The Book of Love #8) - Meara Platt Page 0,9

going to stop him.

Did Dahlia not realize what had happened when they’d kissed?

“Perhaps, but I will only do this with you, Queen Pea.”

She rolled her eyes. “Very well, King Bean. I will read the book with you because you’ve always been kind and protective of me, especially today, and I am very grateful. But just as you have always looked out for me, it will now be my turn to look out for you. You will have your elegant, ton bride. However, please be patient with me. I may not be very good at this matchmaking venture at first. You must understand my own heart is still reeling.”

“I know,” he said gently. His greatest concern was that Wainscott had hurt her so deeply, she would never be able to trust again. “We shall take it slow. In the meanwhile, your family will expect you to attend the various social engagements, and you ought to go. I’ll be there to watch over you whenever I can. If you want to sit in the wallflower corner or with the dowagers, that’s fine, too. I won’t force you to engage with potential suitors until you feel comfortable enough to do so. But it is important that you not hide away, or others will believe there was truth to that bounder’s cruel words. How does this sound to you?”

“Perfect!” Heather clapped her hands. “You are going to make brilliant matches for yourselves.”

Dahlia cast him a fragile smile and stuck her hand out. “Agreed.”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Shall we start tomorrow, Queen Pea?”

CHAPTER THREE

Ronan had never considered courtship a military objective requiring careful strategy, but he did now. It was that cursed kiss to blame. The one he’d given Dahlia, his Queen Pea, at yesterday’s party. He’d only meant to give her an innocent buss on the cheek. But she’d turned her head and opened her mouth at that very instant. His lips had landed on her perfect mouth, and nothing had been the same for him ever since.

That kiss had struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Now, all he could think about was Dahlia.

Bollocks.

He did not like feeling out of control, but he was. Heart thumping, body aching. Blood on fire. Half crazed, because he wanted to kiss her again so badly. Of course, it was not going to happen any time soon.

He sighed, knowing he ought to return to bed. It was well after midnight, probably closer to dawn, and he hadn’t managed a wink of sleep. He’d spent these past few hours alone in his bedchamber, sitting in a wing chair and watching the fire blaze in the hearth. He’d undressed, taken off all his clothes save for his breeches.

The fiery heat felt good against his bare arms and chest.

He’d been shot last year while battling pirates off the coast of Portugal, taking a ball in the arm and another in the thigh. The one to the thigh was merely a flesh wound, hardly anything at all. But the one to the arm had been more serious. He still felt the nasty twinges whenever the weather turned cold.

The warmth of the stoked fire was a soothing balm.

He rubbed his eyes, hoping the gesture alone could erase the sight of Dahlia crying on the bed, her hair gloriously undone and tumbling over her slight and slender shoulders.

Wainscott had completely shattered her innocent heart, leaving Ronan to pick up the pieces and try to mend it.

He would do his best, of course.

He brought his glass to his lips and drank his port before setting the empty glass back on the table beside him. Still unsettled, he refilled it from the half-empty bottle and then stared at the crimson liquid for the longest while.

Dahlia was as fragile as this crystal glass right now. Having been hurt, she did not want to think of love or marriage, nor would she trust men again any time soon.

It was up to him to restore her faith in those of his sex. How else would she ever fall in love with him? He’d given the problem several hours thought and now had a plan. Whether it would work was an entirely different matter.

But it was a plan.

He drained the last of his port, liking the warmth as it slid down his throat. When he was done, he set the glass aside, stuffed the cork back in the bottle, and made his way to bed.

Hopefully, his Machiavellian strategies would not blow up in his