She didn’t know what he intended, but when he took her hand and turned her to face him, she didn’t object. In fact, she was hoping he would kiss her.
“I want you to close your eyes but pay attention.”
She squinted warily. “Why?”
“Because there will be an examination on this later,” he teased in this new playful way that she was becoming quite fond of.
Humoring him, she did as he asked. And in the next instant she smiled when he pressed a kiss against her knuckles. It wasn’t exactly what she’d hoped for, but the pressure was pleasant, his lips warm and enticingly firm.
“And now this.” He turned her wrist and opened her hand.
The coolness of the night air swept over the exposed flesh, making her feel peculiarly vulnerable for such an insignificant act. Then she felt his breath on her skin, hot and humid in the center of her palm. Her lips parted on a gasp. She wanted to curl her fingers, but he kept her splayed as he blew a thin stream of cooler air along the edges, sending a wash of gooseflesh tingling over her limbs.
Again, he breathed hotly against the center. Again, he cooled the surrounding plumper flesh, until she became acutely aware of the pulse beating in the heart of her palm. It had the strangest effect, for she could feel that same heavy pulse in the core of her body, where she was overheated and liquid.
She shifted, sliding her slippers against each other, her knees touching as he exhaled a furnace blast that made perspiration bloom on her skin. And when he pressed his lips to her palm, something clenched deep inside her.
Her eyes flew open. She felt flushed from head to toe.
“There are so many unexpected regions of the body that are particularly susceptible to pleasure,” he said in a whisper against that thrumming pulse. “Places where the skin is fine and delicate, where a breath is almost too much and a touch is just shy of tickling.”
He blew that cool stream again, and this time allowed her to curl her fingers inward. Then he stepped closer. Brushing a tendril behind her ear, his gaze swept from her eyes to the crests of her flushed cheeks and to her plump, parted lips.
His pupils were large, his breathing just as shallow as hers. And she knew she wasn’t the only one affected.
“Show me,” she said—possibly begged—in a throaty rasp as she tilted up her face in eager anticipation.
He shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid tonight’s lesson is over.”
“But you didn’t even kiss me.” She tried not to whine, but any woman would in this situation.
“And I’m not going to either.” Releasing her, he took a step back and adjusted his spectacles. “I intend to keep the upper hand—and I do believe that we can both agree that I just claimed it.”
With her pulse still rioting, it took a moment for his statement to make sense. But when it did, Meg narrowed her eyes. The heat in her veins turned to ice. And she was fairly certain that, somewhere in the world, Lady Avalon would be furious.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
He shrugged. “I suppose it’s a matter of opinion. But know this. Before we’re through, I promise that I’ll not only reclaim what’s mine, I will know all your secrets.”
That anomalous dimple of his appeared once more.
How dare he! And he looked so sure of himself that she desperately wanted to say something clever to put him in his place.
Unfortunately, Meg’s ability to embody Lady Avalon fell short, and all she could do was huff and storm off in a flurry. Drat that man!
And yet, as she marched away, she realized something important from her so-called lesson.
Little did he know, he had just armed her with information. And she fully intended to use it against him.
Chapter 12
Hell hath no fury like a woman sconed
The following morning, Lucien didn’t feel like he’d gained the upper hand as planned.
At first, his strategy to seduce the seductress had seemed foolproof. As with any experiment, he’d intended to act with remote efficiency, to be tactical and in complete control.
In hindsight, however, he might have underestimated her allurement and how her responses to his every touch would affect him.
Merlin’s teeth!
His own plot had completely backfired.
He’d lain awake all night thinking of her: the shimmer of moonlight in her eyes, the warmth and softness of her skin beneath his lips, her sweet fragrance filling his every breath, the fit of her supple curves pressed back against him—and the way she stormed off in high dudgeon because of his refusal to kiss her.
The last thing he wanted was to vex her or make an enemy of the woman who possessed what belonged to him and potentially cause her to go into hiding.
But no, that wasn’t entirely true.
What he actually wanted was to stop wanting to kiss her again.
Unfortunately, he craved her in ways that he hadn’t experienced before. And he knew that if he’d given in, she would have had him wrapped around her finger . . . just like all the other men she’d duped.
He wasn’t going to let that happen.
What he was going to do, however, was go back to his original plan—to diligently scrutinize her and learn all he needed to know. He would have to maintain close proximity. But he would do so in a carefully detached manner that wouldn’t allow even a modicum of attraction to stand in the way of his main purpose.
Conveniently, the elder Parrish women invited his party to travel with theirs, and much to Meg’s consternation, Lucien had accepted.
Today, he promised them a tour down the Rhine. The open-air seclusion would suit his purposes perfectly. At least, that’s what he hoped.
However, the paddle steamer was only scheduled to run on Thursdays and Saturdays. This was Wednesday. Nevertheless, he quickly learned that, for the right price, the captain was willing to drive a private party down the Rhine on any other day of the week.
It was a boon, indeed, and fit perfectly into his plan. He didn’t even mind the cold shoulder Meg had been giving him all morning as she kept to her end of the boat. A wolf caught in a snare was bound to snarl, after all.
His own mood was little better. Not only hadn’t he slept a wink last night but he’d received an inauspicious missive when he left the hotel.
Standing at the rail, he read the correspondence and frowned. It was from the investigator he’d hired to look into the Parrish women. But it didn’t contain the report he’d expected. Apparently, weeks of heavy rains had made the roads impassable and put him behind schedule. In other words, he had no useful information.
Lucien curled the missive in his fist, wondering if Mr. Richards was looking into every possible option to overcome this obstacle. There had to be some roads that weren’t flooded. They were living in a modern age, after all. Surely man wasn’t still limited by the laws of precipitation.
Irritated, he smoothed the missive and stuffed it into his breast pocket.
“The aunts have sent me on an errand, Your Grace,” Meg said crisply, her posture stiff as she came up beside him, standing close enough that her damnably appealing scent teased his nostrils. “Scone?”
Upon her gloved hand rested a dainty handkerchief and, upon that, a golden black-currant scone.
His stomach growled. Though, he wasn’t certain if he wanted the pastry or the delectable woman in sprigged muslin. Then again, as an errant breeze took that moment to sweep the gauzy fabric against her form, outlining every curve and valley with mouthwatering precision, he knew the answer.