Passions of a Gentleman (Gentlemen of Honor #3) - Rose Gordon Page 0,4

happening.” She narrowed her eyes on him. “Ever.”

“That’s all right.” His voice was soft and calm, betraying the heated storm she saw swirling in his green eyes. He took a step toward her. “I have a good enough memory.”

Scorching flames licked Henrietta’s face and without realizing what she was doing she took the nearest glass of champagne she could reach and splashed him in the face.

Unfortunately, instead of evaporating his smile and making him so angry he left her presence in a huff, his unnaturally handsome smile grew wider and the wretch laughed!

“Does nothing faze you?”

“Nothing you do,” he said, withdrawing his handkerchief from his breast pocket.

A traitorous tendril of she-didn’t-know-what began to coil inside her. She ground her teeth.

“I knew you didn’t like me, but I didn’t think you despised me this much,” he teased, as he carelessly wiped off the front of his suit of clothes.

“I don’t despise you.”

“Good.” He shoved his kerchief back into his breast pocket, his grin still firmly in place, then held his hand out toward her. “Dance with me?”

“No, thank you.”

“And why not?”

She stared at him unblinking. Was he cracked? “Shall I list the reasons?”

“Only if the list is short.” He jerked his thumb to point over his left shoulder. “I hear the closing strains of this waltz and another will begin shortly.”

If he weren’t so handsome it’d be a lot easier to detest him. “I don’t think we’re suited.”

“Does a pair have to suit in order to dance a waltz?”

“Does one have to be annoying in order to get what he wants?”

“When it involves you? Absolutely.” Simon reached for her hand, then tucked it into the crook of his arm and led her toward the ballroom, his head held high as if he hadn’t a worry or concern in the world. The wretch.

Simon led her to the center of the floor. “What’s your story, I wonder,” he mused when the music started. His voice was low, yet his lips so close to her ear she could feel his breath against her skin as he spoke.

“I don’t have one.”

“Everyone has a story.” Simon spun her to the music. “Even the poor sod who owns that ghastly museum.” He lifted his eyebrows. “You do remember that blasted museum, do you not?”

“So you do spy on me,” she teased.

“No, that was entirely a coincidence.” The left corner of his lips tipped up and he tucked his soiled handkerchief back into this pocket. “Dare I hope you had a more enjoyable experience than I did?”

“You can hope it.” Despite herself, she smiled. “Even I could have hoped for it.”

“Ah, so you can smile in my presence.”

Henrietta twisted her lips. “You make me sound like a sour old prune.”

“Are prunes sour? I always thought they were bitter.”

“Sour, bitter—” she pressed her lips into a gentle line— “neither are desirable.”

“Depends,” Simon allowed. “Sweet is usually preferred, but at least you’re speaking to me—and with the semblance of a smile at that.”

“You act as if I’m incapable.”

“You are. At least you are around me. You seemed to show no difficulty in the action around your suitor.”

“Suitor,” Henrietta choked, tripping over Simon’s foot.

Simon’s hand on her back tightened, steadying her. “Was your companion at the museum not your suitor, then?”

“No,” she said with a little more conviction than was necessary. The man had more than sixty years in his dish. He was most certainly not her suitor. “Do you think I’m one of those kinds of young ladies?” She frowned. “Don’t answer that. I already know you think I have loose morals.”

Simon opened his mouth to say something, a rebuttal if she had to guess. Fortunately, whatever statement or retort was on the tip of his tongue died with the end of the music.

“Thank you for dancing with me, Mr. Appleton,” she forced herself to say.

“Did you just thank me?” Simon asked, leading her toward the edge of the ballroom.

Ignoring the hint of humor she detected in his voice, she said, “Well, it’s not every young lady who gets to dance with the most sought after gentleman in the room,” she teased again.

Beneath her hand his arm went rigid and his face lost all expression, his eyes resembling emeralds more now than ever before. Slowly, he pulled away from her. “You’re welcome,” he clipped.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she offered. Truly, it would have been better for her if she’d have just let him stalk off with whatever bee had just flown into his bonnet. They’d already danced