Say No to the Duke (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #4) - Eloisa James Page 0,27
had the Wilde eyebrows. And the Wilde cheekbones as well.
“Right,” she said. Her mouth drooped. “I suppose it was a stupid idea.”
“Yes, it was,” Jeremy stated, not softening the blow.
She straightened and forced a blithe smile on her lips. “It was a happy dream while it lasted, so thank you for indulging me.”
He flinched. “That smile is terrifying.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, scowling at him instead.
“Has anyone recognized how much desperation lies behind that particular smile, the false cheerful one?” Jeremy asked.
He had her hedged against the billiard table. In an effort to gain a little space, she pushed up so she was seated on the table and wiggled backward, making sure to pin her panniers at her sides.
“I am never desperate,” she told him. “Despair is an emotion unbecoming to a Wilde.”
“Believe me, my father expressed similar feelings about my condition on returning from war. And yet . . . when desperation becomes one’s companion, no calls to better behavior seem to ward it off.”
Betsy shook her head. “I’m not desperate. I’m simply fatigued, after a long Season.” She had an idea. “Could we go to Wilmslow for an afternoon instead? I am so . . .”
“Bored,” Jeremy supplied, his voice solid and steady. “You are tired of pretending to be a woman whom you are not. You are tired of laughing at unfunny jokes and listening to terrible poetry. You are tired of receiving and rejecting proposals of marriage from strangers.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take you to Wilmslow if we are accompanied by a chaperone.” His voice was indomitable.
“You just tried to win a night in my bed!” she cried, frustrated. “Where were all your principles a half hour ago?”
“You believed me?” A glinting smile spread across his face. “I rather thought you had put me in the category of a wilted vegetable, Bess.”
“What?” She eyed him. “You know exactly what you look like, Jeremy. Don’t be absurd.”
“You’re the one who is here with me, late at night, without a footman within call, though he should be coming with tea any moment, now I think on it.”
“Because you are . . . you,” she said, exasperated. “Could we go to Wilmslow just for one afternoon?” True desperation was leaking into her voice but she couldn’t stop it. “We needn’t have a chaperone if we merely walked around the town.”
“Aunt Knowe,” Jeremy said firmly.
Betsy groaned.
“If she accompanies us, I’ll agree. As an older woman, she can visit any place we might frequent. The attention will focus on her, rather than on you.”
“I will ask her,” Betsy said reluctantly.
“Then it’s as good as done.”
“I still don’t see why we can’t go alone,” Betsy grumbled.
“There’s this as a reason,” Jeremy said. There was something in his voice that made her head jerk up. He braced his arms on the billiard table on either side of her.
His face was so close to hers that she could see his eyes even more clearly than before. The gray, flecked with a lighter color, made them look like granite. This close, his expression was still enigmatic.
But not his eyes. Jeremy’s eyes burned with lust. Her own widened in surprise, but he didn’t move. He just watched her, his breath touching her face.
Chapter Eight
Betsy had never been kissed.
She had made it clear to her suitors in hundreds of ways that she would not welcome any physical protestations of affection. If gentlemen cared to go on their knees, they could remain at a reasonable distance and make their case from below.
But this was different.
Jeremy wasn’t kissing her. He was just waiting, and all of a sudden, the world narrowed to the two of them. A flare of adventure swept through her. She had never wanted to kiss her suitors, but Jeremy?
She leaned forward and put her lips tentatively on his.
To her surprise, his tongue swept her lips and dipped inside.
Jeremy tasted so good that he stole away her common sense. His tongue curled around hers and sensation streaked down the backs of her knees.
This kiss was unsanitary, but Jeremy tasted so good. Like cherries in summer, when you can’t stop eating them until your lips and fingers are stained purple. Hot and luscious and carnal.
Her tongue twisted around his. She hadn’t realized that eating cherries was carnal, not until this moment, when she tried to make sense of the way he tasted, better than summer fruit. Her heart was pounding with the frantic pace of a woodpecker. And she was . . .