“Maybe just one.” Oh, she was so very bad. But chocolate tarts. Howcouldshe refuse?
To his credit, Winterbourne didn’t gloat. He put another warm, fragrant tart on the small plate and handed it to her. She began to protest, but he cut her off, lifting a teacup and adding a splash of milk. “Two lumps of sugar?” he asked, pouring the steaming brew into the dainty china cup.
Her grip on the plate with the tarts faltered, and she almost dropped it. “You’re serving metea?”
He didn’t answer, adding a lump of sugar. “I think three?” He arched a brow.
“Two,” she said quickly. Three—her mother would murder her. She gave the door another furtive glance and took a quick bite of the tart. When she looked back, he handed her the teacup and saucer.
“Thank you.” She took a small sip, savoring the sweetness. Then frowned at him. He’d definitely added more than two lumps of sugar.
She took another bite of the tart and closed her eyes in a blissful surrender to chocolate decadence. “These are so good,” she said around a mouthful of chocolate and moist cake. “How did you get them? Cook doesn’t bake them every day.”
“I spoke to your cook this morning. I knew you’d be hungry when you were up and about.” His voice sounded hoarse, and she opened her eyes to catch a glimpse of him. His gaze was heated amber, warming her as it flowed over her. He was staring at her mouth, and she lowered the tart, licking her lip.
She thought she heard him make a small sound. Her heart pounded in her ears, and a trickle of sweat traced a path between her breasts. He was doing it again—seducing her with only a look. And she was a willing participant, all the more eager because he was being so kind this morning—pouring her tea, feeding her chocolate delicacies.
Oh, how she wished he would leave. She, who had so little experience with men and games of love, was becoming thoroughly enamored of him—amplifying each word, each look into something meaningful, giving his every action a significance he’d never intended. He was playing a game and she was playing for real—she didn’t know any other way to play.
But surely he would be gone by dinner. She frowned. “You asked Cook about the tarts this morning?”
“Hmm,” he replied, eyes tracing the contours of her mouth so she again felt compelled to touch her tongue to her lips. He inhaled sharply, but this time his behavior didn’t distract her.
“You assumed you would be here long enough to bring them to me? That my father wouldn’t have you thrown out before dinner?”
His gaze flicked to her eyes and he gave her a roguish smile. “I told you I’m staying, Francesca.”
She pursed her lips. “Lord Winterbourne, I really cannot allow this familiarity.”
He leaned forward, and she could feel the heat from his body. She tried to scoot back again, but she was already wedged into the couch’s corner. “I must insist that you refer to me as Miss Dashing.” She was proud that, despite his closeness, her voice sounded steady.
“Even if we’re betrothed?”
“Betrothed?” The plate slipped from her hand and clattered on the floor. She groped for it but missed when she saw his grin.
“I knew those tarts would only distract you for a moment.”
“Distract me?” She leapt out of her chair, took three steps, and rounded on him. “What do you mean betrothed? We’re not betrothed!” She rubbed the back of her head where the newly formed knot pulsed painfully from her sudden activity. “Arewe?”
“No.” He shook his head, and she sank into a gold chintz chair with relief. She reached for a second chocolate tart. After that scare, she needed it. “But we will tell everyone we are.”
Her hand froze above the china plate. “We’ll tell—what?”
“It’s the only way, Francesca. An engagement gives me a suitable excuse for residing at Tanglewilde in the eyes of theton.”
“But you don’t need to reside here.” She sat forward. Hecouldn’treside here. Give it two days and she’d be making a fool of herself, falling all over him, cow-eyed with infatuation.
He scowled. “I told you last night, I’m not leaving until I find the man who attacked you.”
“Why? The magistrate—”
He stood and waved a hand, cutting her off. “Damn that idiot of a magistrate.”
She tried another tactic. “But surely you’d feel more comfortable at Grayson Park, and it’s only a short ride.”
“I can’t protect you at Grayson Park.”
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