Josie bit her lip. Oh, no, she had done it now. She had not meant to say so much. She had not meant to tell him that she intended to search for the treasure. Drat! Drat her pride and drat the bad-luck treasure. Why couldn’t she keep anything to herself? “It’s nothing,” she said, inching toward the window. “I’m talking nonsense.”
He grabbed her elbow just as she reached one hand out for the casement. “You knew exactly what you were saying. What treasure are you babbling about? Not our grandfathers’ treasure?”
She frowned.
“Oh, bloody hell. That is what you’re talking about. It’s a myth, Miss Hale. A fabrication.”
“No, it’s not. My grandfather told me about it before he died.”
He ran a hand over his face again. “Bedtime stories.”
“If it’s only a story, then how did your grandfather buy this house? Why do I live right next door?”
“Oh, I’m not saying that our grandfathers weren’t acquainted. I think they were the best of friends.” He crossed his arms. “Until your grandfather killed mine.”
Josie shot forward and rapped him hard on the chest. “That’s not true. That’s the fabrication. My grandfather would never have done something like that.”
Westman raised a brow. “And yet, my grandfather is dead. He died right here in this room, a bullet in his brain.”
Josie ogled the study with renewed interest. This was where the fabled argument had taken place? This was where the map had been severed in two and where, years later, the men had argued and the pistol had discharged, accidentally killing Westman’s grandfather. Josie cleared her throat. “That was an accident. They were arguing and—”
Westman waved an arm. “More fairy tales. Save them for your nursery, Miss Hale. They’re not wanted here.”
Josie huffed and hefted herself onto the window casement. “Very well, then I shall return home to my cradle and my nursery rhymes, but when I find the treasure, don’t think I will share any with you, odious man.”
“Ha. And a moment ago, you were begging to be my mistress.”
Josie was perched on the ledge of the casement, but now she practically flung herself back into the room. “Begging? Begging!” She marched toward him and poked a finger at his chest. “As though I would ever deign to beg a man like you for so much as a shilling. You bastard.”
“Is that the best you can do?” he mocked her.
She raised her hand to poke him again, to push him back, to propel him out of her way, out of her very existence, but he took hold of her hand and yanked her hard against him. “Don’t push me.”
Josie blinked, too surprised by his sudden defense to wrench away. And then, when she was flush against him, she hardly wanted to. His chest was solid and broad, his body lean and hard and so wonderfully male. He felt male, he smelled male. She looked into his eyes, and there in the watery blue depths she saw something hungry and primitive that the feminine in her instantly recognized as its masculine counterpart. “Let me go,” she said, but she didn’t mean it. She didn’t even sound like she meant it. “I mean it,” she tried again, and still her voice was breathy and low. “I don’t—oh, bother.” And she grasped him by the back of the head and pulled his mouth to hers.
He wasn’t a good kisser.
Josie realized that fact immediately. She’d had one or two passionate embraces in dark gardens during ton balls, and Westman’s lips felt cold and lifeless against hers.
She felt as though she were kissing a frog, and not one destined to turn into a prince. But Josie wasn’t the kind of girl who gave up easily. Pulling back slightly to readjust her angle, she went in again.
Perhaps Westman had just been unprepared the first time.
She pressed her lips against his again, and then, when she felt a flicker of response from him, slipped her tongue into his mouth. That had driven her other suitors to heights of rapture. It was a dangerous move, what with her in Westman’s study, unprotected, and in danger of his unrestrained impulses. Normally, she would never have attempted something this daring when she wasn’t certain of an easy escape, but the danger, the uncertainty, and her treacherous position only served to heighten her excitement.
She wanted Westman to try something ungentlemanly.
Instead, her tongue darted into his mouth while his own sat sluggish and uninterested. “Are you done, Miss Hale?” he asked.
Except his words were muffled by the impediment in his mouth. It took Josie a moment to realize his words were not pleas for more, and then she pulled away.
He wiped his mouth. Josie hissed in a mortified breath, and even though she had been described in the Morning Post on no fewer than two separate occasions as “The Unflappable Josephine Hale,” she felt her face burst into hot flames of shame. Westman had not liked her kisses. Westman found her disgusting.
“If you are finished mauling me—”
Josie took a horrified step back.
“Kindly leave me in peace. I have work to do tonight.”
