She blinked and after a few seconds managed to muster a glare. “H... how dare you.” But it was a feeble, half-hearted objection and they both knew it. She tried again. “What do you think you were...?” She faltered, realizing where her question was leading, and that it was to nowhere that would do her any good.
His little termagant was delightfully flustered. He was damnably shaken himself, but determined not to let her see it.
She suddenly noticed where her hands were and released his coat abruptly, then staggered.
He caught her by the waist and steadied her.
“Stop that! Let go of me!” She pushed at his hands. He released her instantly and she stumbled back, and she bumped into an armchair. She grabbed the back of it and steadied herself.
Her cheeks were flushed wild rose, her lips were plump and damp. Those extraordinary smoky eyes of hers were wide and dark and glittered with emotion.
A woman aroused. By one little kiss. Well, two. Barely.
“Well now, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he murmured and was pleased to hear he sounded quite cool. Quite the opposite of what he felt.
She dashed the back of her hand across her mouth as if to wipe his taste away. “I don’t know what you mean. Get out.”
He didn’t move. “I was curious. I wished to see whether you have an antipathy to men, as is rumored.” And how wrong rumor was. It took all his considerable powers of control not to snatch her back into his arms and finish what he’d started, but this was neither the time nor the place. He needed to get away, to think. To plan.
“I do have an antipathy to men—especially to you!”
He gave her a slow smile. “No, you don’t.”
“I do. I cannot bear you! I loathe the very sight of—mmph.” He kissed her again.
This time when the duke released her, George’s knees simply gave way. She collapsed into the chair. She sat with eyes closed a minute, dazed, trying to think of something scathing—really, really scathing—to say to the duke. But her heart was pounding and her brain was in turmoil and nothing, not a single word, scathing or otherwise, came to mind.
And when she opened her eyes, he was gone.
She stared at the open door, then touched her fingers to her mouth. It wasn’t sore, but it felt swollen. She wanted to scrub her whole mouth out to remove the taste of him—it felt almost as though he had branded her. She needed something to wash his taste away.
A tray sat on the sideboard with glasses and several decanters. Someone had been in here tonight, drinking. She rose to pour herself a glass—lord, but her legs were as wobbly and uncertain as a newborn foal’s. What had that wretched man done to her?
She poured herself a large brandy, drank a mouthful, choked—it was horrid stuff—and drank again. Medicinal use. She waited. The liquor burned deep within her, warming and smooth.
But it didn’t banish the duke’s taste. Instead it was as if it had blended with his essence, so that forever after the taste of brandy would evoke the Duke of Everingham.
No loss, George decided. She’d never liked brandy anyway. But it had poured strength back into her legs. She would return to the ballroom and act as though nothing had happened.
Because nothing had. She would put it—him—the kiss—entirely from her mind.
***
Hart walked home, turning over the events of the evening in his mind. He hadn’t planned to kiss her. Oh, who was he fooling, of course he had. Just to test his theory.
He hadn’t planned on... that.
Fire and innocence and rebellion and... he didn’t know what else. Surprise.
What a mass of contradictions she was.
Graceful dancer, passionate music lover, outspoken animal defender—outspoken everything—and loyal to her family. He hadn’t missed how swiftly she’d leapt to the defense of Lady Rose’s husband, who she’d only known a short time.
Lady Salter’s words came back to him.I had thought, your grace, that marriage to a young woman of good family, an independently minded young woman who would not hang off your sleeve, a girl who wants nothing more than to retire to a country estate and be left to breed horses, dogs—and possibly children—would be exactly what you required. A wife who would keep out of your way and give you no trouble.
The last—no trouble—was clearly nonsense, but at least she wouldn’t bore him. She wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him—not by his title, not by his manner. Andobedientwas probably the last adjective one would apply to her. That would have to change, of course, but from everything he’d learned about Lady Georgiana Rutherford so far, the rest was true.
His main reason for marriage was to get an heir. Did it really matter what his wife did after that? Especially if she wanted to live in the country, raising her horses and dogs and children. Leaving him to get on with his life. It would be better than having a wife cuckolding him in London, as many married men had.
