Love Is a Rogue (Wallflowers vs. Rogues #1) - Lenora Bell Page 0,29
she was.
“Clearly, you won’t believe anything I tell you. You should have your portrait painted. Maybe then you’d see the resemblance.”
She turned away. “I’ve no interest in having my likeness painted.”
And he shouldn’t have any interest in telling, or showing her, how attractive she was. This conversation was far too intimate for a simple business transaction. It was time for some lighthearted banter, to regain the earlier footing of their interactions, and then it was past time for him to leave.
He framed her face with his hands in the air. “If I were an artist, I’d paint you reclining on a velvet divan with your hair unbound. Rather like that dairymaid we saw earlier. I think your hair is long enough to have much the same effect.”
“Wright!” His name came out somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “I’m not having my portrait done and certainly not in the style of that most objectionable frontispiece.”
The dairymaid had been reclining on a bed, her hair streaming over her bare breasts, and her arms outstretched to test the girth of the two enormous pricks being offered to her by the two farmhands.
Her gaze dropped to the bed and then lifted to him. “Perhaps . . .” Her voice had gone throaty and soft. “Perhaps we should go back downstairs.”
There was nothing between him and Lady Beatrice except some teasing banter and professional services rendered.
And a bed.
A large, comfortable-looking bed. Her coppery hair would look stunning spread across that coverlet.
Don’t look at the bed.
He’d had enough fantasies about her involving desks. He didn’t need to replace those with images of her on this enormous bed hung with a very suggestive shade of pale pink velvet.
He cleared his throat. “I think that would be a good idea.”
He waited for her to flounce toward the door and out of his life.
She stayed. “Do you want to know the real reason that my friends were staring at you like that?”
Don’t answer that question . . . “Tell me.”
“I told them about our conversation. How you insulted my dictionary and said it wasn’t much fun.”
“I don’t think that’s the reason they stared. I think you told them that you thought about kissing me.”
“That’s preposterous. I’m not a ninnyhammer. I’ve never imagined kissing you. I’m not imagining kissing you right now.”
The last said in a husky whisper accompanied by a heated gaze upon his lips.
“You’re definitely imagining kissing me right now.”
“Don’t you wish that were true?”
This conversation was all kinds of wrong and veering toward wicked.
Somehow the distance between them had melted away. It would be so easy to tumble her down upon the bed and set to work destroying that carefully constructed tower of hair. His fingers itched to unravel her copper curls and test their silken texture between his fingers.
“If I kissed you right now, princess, it wouldn’t be a safe little taste. I’d kiss you so well that you’d remember it for the rest of your life.”
“Does that line usually work?”
“I’ve been remarkably successful. We all have our skills. I repair ships and houses . . . and I give unforgettable kisses.”
“So do I,” she whispered. “Hypothetically. But I know you would never take advantage of me.”
“How can you be so certain? You’re alone in a bedchamber with a notorious rogue.”
“A rogue with a moral code. I asked the housekeeper at Thornhill about you, and she told me that you were an incorrigible flirt, but an honorable one. As far as she knew, you’d debauched no innocents at the estate. Therefore, I’m quite safe with you.”
“Is that a challenge, princess?”
Damn it, he was going to have to kiss her now. He needed to kiss her so that he could forget about her. Because now, with this new episode of almost-kissing in front of a big, soft bed, he’d have fodder for years of fantasies to come.
He cupped her chin and tilted her face toward him and . . . the shop bell rang, a faint tinkling sound.
A warning bell.
He dropped his hand.
“We should go downstairs,” he said gruffly. “I thought the bookshop was closed.”
Her hand rested against her belly, her bosom rising and falling rapidly. “Perhaps Isobel or Viola forgot something and they are back to collect it.”
She walked swiftly to the door.
The moment was gone. The danger had been averted. He could make his escape, and not a moment too soon. What was it about this prim, bookish lady that ripped his resolve to shreds like a gale tearing at a canvas sail?