“Would you like some? There are two cups.” Her question caught him off guard again.
“No. I am not partial to tea. I prefer coffee or chocolate, and then only in the morning.”
“Oh.” She bit into a toast point, nipped at an escaping crumb. Her lips had been so red, so innocent in the moonlight. He’d known she’d never been kissed, had been slowly seducing her into his arms when they’d been disturbed.
“What are you thinking about? You have a most peculiar expression.” Her teeth caught at her lower lip.
“Nothing in particular,” he answered. Damn it all. He supposed himself the master wordsmith and he couldn’t seem to keep his mind off her mouth for more than a moment. This would not do. “Or rather, I was merely considering your situation.”
“I thought we were done discussing that.”
“Actually, I think we have barely begun.”
“How do you suppose?”
“Well, it seems that we have not reached a solution that is agreeable to us both.”
“I do not see that it needs be agreeable to you. It is my life.”
How little she knew. “Then why will you not be sensible? Do you think I am without suspicions of your intentions? You have become much too amenable to returning to the mother you fled from. I do not believe it.”
As if on cue, her eyes dropped to her plate. The hand holding the toast shook until delicate crumbs fluttered through the air. So, he had been correct.
“Even I, with all my acknowledged wickedness, cannot send you out with only a handful of coin and no known destination.”
She kept her head lowered and brought up the tea for a sip. No, it was more of a gulp. She placed the cup back on the saucer. It clattered loudly, echoing in the growing silence.
He walked around the small table and knelt down before her. Her shoulders straightened as she attempted to edge away from him. He pressed forward against her slightly open knees.
She turned away and stared at the old masters on the wall.
“Look at me, Marguerite.”
She kept her eyes turned away and did not answer.
This close he could smell the dust of her journey, the faint floral scent she wore, and over it all the crisp tang of the lemons. He caught one of her hands between his, rubbing his fingers gently across it, and then brought it to his lips. First, he nuzzled her wrist, then worked his way over her palm and up to the soft pads at the base her fingers. The sharp scent of the lemon was overpowering and, unable to resist, his tongue darted out and tasted.
She turned back to him, startled.
“This is where we stopped a year ago. I tasted only your fingers, never your lips. Do you wish it had been different?”
“What I wish is of no consequence now.” Despite her words, her glance moved over his face and settled on his mouth. He parted his lips and watched her inhale. He bent closer.
She did not draw back.
He pressed tighter against her legs, and moved until only a butterfly’s eyelash separated them. He could feel her breath upon his lips, but he did not close that final gap.
They breathed as one and he forced himself to a perfect stillness. She would come to him; he need only wait.
He felt her eyes move up his face, the weight of her gaze caressing him, assessing him. Their glances joined and, with a sigh of surrender, she moved forward.
The door banged open. A commanding presence strode in.
“What is going on here? I could not believe it when Lady Carrington told me I was needed. Here. A lady of my consequence appearing at a bachelor residence. Unheard of. But, I see that she was correct. Miss Marguerite Wilkes, what would your sister say about this? Alone with a gentleman well past any decent hour. And Wimberley, you of all men should know better, and do know better. Huntington would skin you alive if he knew with whom you dallied. You know what this means, I trust?”
Tristan rocked back on his heels. He could not help the ironic smile that spread across his face.
Lady Smythe-Burke had arrived.
Chapter Three
Marguerite wanted to hide beneath the tea table as the formidable lady stalked towards them, her full skirts swirling above her narrowly fitted waist. Lady Smythe-Burke was one of the true doyennes of society, the aunt of the powerful Duke of Westlake and the widow of an earl. One whispered word from her and worlds rose