A wonderful ache spread down Petra’s body. She cleared her throat determined to sound unaffected and unmoved by his sudden appearance. “Really, Morwick. You cannot say such a thing to me and then walk away.”
He halted and looked over his shoulder. Flames burned in the depths of his eyes, now more black than indigo. “Why not? Are you going to be petulant, Petra?” His gaze flicked down the length of her before returning to her face.
“I dislike you,” Petra threw back at him. She felt gloriously alive for the first time in days.
The big shoulders rippled in a careless manner. “Unfortunate, as I happen to like you very much. Petulance aside.”
Petra opened her mouth, knowing now was the time to say something incredibly witty in return. She hadn’t seen him in over a week. He’d kissed her madly under a tree, insulted her, then fled to Buxton in effort to avoid her. She was terribly confused by his manner.And happy.
Contrary, complicated beast.Heart fluttering madly, Petra lifted her skirts, and made a great show of stomping past him toward the landing.
“Petra, darling.” Mother was just at the base of the stairs, annoyance clear as she spotted Petra. “There you are. Finally. I thought I would need to fetch you myself. Come, greet the rest of the guests.” A small gasp popped out of her mouth as Morwick stepped out of the shadows of the hall to spy down on her. “Oh, Lord Morwick. You’ve arrived.”
“Indeed, I have, Lady Marsh.” Morwick glided past Petra to gracefully make his way down the stairs. He was such a beautiful, elegant animal in his evening clothes, the sight of which banished all memory of his usual dusty, wrinkled appearance.
Upon reaching the bottom step, he bowed low and took Mother’s hand, tucking her fingers neatly into his elbow.
Mother’s lips parted and then shut, for once not knowing what to say. The top of the ostrich feather in her coiffure trembled even as she nodded to Morwick. Mother was wearing a deep purple gown embroidered with butterflies across the skirt. She looked like a tiny, overstuffed plum.
“Allow me to escort you to the drawing room. It would be my greatest pleasure.”
Somehow Petra doubted that. What was Morwick about besides completely unsettling her before dinner?
He turned to look up at Petra, who was midway down the long staircase. His eyes followed the movement of her body with a hungry look. “And you as well, Lady Petra.”
Petra reached the bottom of the stairs, fingers trembling as he took her hand. She’d hoped the affect Morwick had on her would have…dissipated. She was wrong. The attraction was stronger than ever.
Bollocks.
* * *
Brendan was behavinglike the savage he was often accused of being. Polite gentlemen didn’t stare at a woman as if she were a delicious bit of roast. And he’d called herpetulant,which he knew irritated her. The best part had been taking the arm of the annoying Lady Marsh. Petra’s eyes had widened in shock as he took her mother’s fingers.
I blame the dress. The bloody green dress.
Petra wore the same pale green dress which had first launched his unwanted desire. The same dress she’d worn the day of her brother’s wedding. He’d spent endless nights fantasizing about peeling the green silk from her shoulders and pulling the dress from her body. Then she’d gone and pressed those small, delectable breasts against him, smelling of sugar cookies and roses. His mouth had watered with hunger. Brendan wanted to devour her and he was tired of pretending he didn’t.
Clarity, when such a thing happened, could change many things. A lifetime of avoidance, for example. Such a thing meant nothing when watching the delicate pink flush come over Petra’s cheeks as her fingers fumbled over the lace caught on the button of his shirt. He’d been uncertain, until that very moment, what Petra’s feelings were toward him. He’d told himself the entire time in Buxton that she was merely having cold feet over her marriage to Simon.
But when her lips had parted and Brendan had seen the pink of her tongue peek out, the way her head had tilted, begging to be kissed, his heart had beat more firmly. He felt lust, of course—for God’s sake, she smelled of cookies and roses—but something else hovered between them. Brendan considered it the mostgentlemanlyact of his life he hadn’t dragged her back to his room and ravished her. Because he wished to. He wasn’t sure how he would get through the dull dinner before him without falling on her like a madman.
Damn.She had an extensive wardrobe. Why that dress?
Petra’s fingers trembled, vibrating against his forearm as he escorted her and her mother to the dining room, catching up with the other guests just now going in. The slow burn of her touch stoked his arousal. Thank God for his coat.
“I fear we’re to be the last ones in,” Lady Marsh, ever conscious of social propriety, twittered.
“A shame to be sure.” Brendan answered politely, pleased he’d missed the requisite sherry before dinner. Watching all of Pendleton’s guests bestow false smiles on each other while they discussed nothing of importance was a waste of time.
Gazes lifted as he entered the room with Lady Marsh and Petra. Brendan smiled at his good fortune.
Simon was absolutely furious.
16
Lady Cupps-Foster, Marissa to her friends, watched her son lead in the Marsh ladies much to the dismay of Simon and his harpy of a mother. She and her son were not exactly welcome guests at this gathering, and by escorting Lady Marsh and Petra, Brendan was guaranteed to tweak the nose of his host.
Katherine eyed Petra with unforeseen malice.
