“Of course,” she repeated pettishly, standing as well and throwing off the coverlet. “Because I’m safe with you. No, thank you, don’t bother.”
What in God’s name was she saying? That she didn’t want to be safe? Judging by her clenched fists and heaving bosom, she was enraged with him, but why?
After a moment, it came to him: the price. “Earlier, you demanded a price from me.” What did she want? He gave up trying to avert his eyes from her breasts.
“It was mere foolishness. I do beg your pardon.”
He watched her and said nothing. Keeping silent was a proven method of making people talk. She probably knew this, but he could wait her out.
It didn’t take long. “Oh, very well.” She rolled her eyes. “It was nothing—only a kiss.”
Stunned, he asked, “Why?”
There, she’d said it. She averted her face. “What a stupid question. Now that you know, just go away.”
“It’s not a stupid question,” he said. “What I meant was, why me?”
She huffed.
“Any man would be happy to kiss you,” he said.
She threw up her hands and glared. “I don’t want to kiss just any man. If you must know, it’s because I like you. Because I find you…appealing. And because you actually noticed something about me besides my face and figure.”
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t notice your face and figure,” he said in the dry tone that was distinctly his. The beginnings of a smile curved his very tempting mouth.
“How was I supposed to know that?” she asked.
“How was I supposed to know you wanted to kiss me?”
This was an entirely valid question. Since she didn’t know how to flirt, he’d had no way of knowing. “Well, now you do.”
Later, she lay in bed reliving that kiss—or rather, those many kisses. She’d expected something playful and gently informative like Johnny Magee’s kisses, but she’d received passion instead.
Cecil had prowled toward her, taken her face in his hands, and kissed her quickly and hard. “Are you sure?”
She responded by putting her arms around him and kissing him back. He showed no hesitation after that, pressing her close, teasing her mouth open, exploring her hungrily, and his kisses had wandered to her throat, her ear, and back to her lips again. She remembered the pressure of his chest against her aching nipples, the throb in her private parts, the bulge in his breeches that meant he was aroused, too. Thank heavens for Johnny Magee, who had explained it to her. Her mother would have sent her into marriage all unaware.
Now she was all too aware and too eager. Fortunately, Cecil’s hands wandered to her derriere and then…stilled. He kissed her once more, long and lingeringly, and stood back. His chest rose and fell. “This was delightful, Miss Darsington,” he said politely, “but we’d better stop.”
He was right, of course, and extremely kind and proper, for if he’d wished to take advantage…she didn’t know what she would have done. She daren’t risk pregnancy and subsequent ruin.
But how she wanted him! With him, such sensual activity felt so perfect. So right.
At last she fell asleep, and all too soon woke to the apologetic voice of Sarah. “Lady Darsington sent me to wake you, miss. The gentlemen will soon go to fetch the Yule log, and the ladies are to cheer them on.”
On the instant, she was wide awake. Cecil would be one of those gentlemen. She yawned. “Thank you, Sarah.”
The maid opened the bed curtains. “I wanted to bring you a pot of chocolate, but Lady Darsington said there isn’t time.”
“I’ll have coffee at breakfast.” Ordinarily, she would enjoy sipping chocolate in bed whilst reading poetry or a novel, but not when the alternative was lessons in flirtation with Cecil Hale.
She climbed out of bed, had a quick wash with the warm water Sarah had brought, and waited impatiently as the maid helped her don a dark blue woolen walking dress and brushed and tidied her hair.
“Don’t you look a treat, miss!” the maid said. “Much prettier than the Contessa, if you ask me, and her no better than she should be, if what I hear is true.”
Dorothea felt herself flush, feeling more than a little guilty on her own account—and yet, she couldn’t regret leaving her bedchamber last night. “Considering you mentioned betting on the Contessa’s behavior, in which Lord Restive was an equal participant, isn’t it a little unfair to deride her now?”
Sarah hung her head. “Sorry, miss. I daresay it is. We all have urges.”
Dorothea smiled. “Has some handsome footman caught your eye?”
She giggled. “No, miss, but I did fancy one of the grooms for a bit. One of these days I’ll find the right man. And so will you, miss.” She cocked her head at Dorothea in the mirror. “I’d say Mr. Hale has taken quite a fancy to you.”
Now Dorothea was truly blushing. “Mr. Hale is most kind and pleasant, but my mother disapproves of him.”
“Aye, but she won’t be walking into the wood to fetch the Yule log, miss. She and Lord Wellough plan to stay indoors and play piquet. You may as well flirt with Mr. Hale while you can.”
Dorothea hoped to do so, but when they set out for the Home Wood, she received nothing more than a cheerful nod from Cecil. She found herself on the arm of Charles Dufair, who carried his ever-present sketchbook in the other hand. Cecil escorted the Contessa, whilst Lord Restive walked with his aunt.
She suppressed a twinge of jealousy. No doubt Lady Alice had arranged these pairings to minimize the appearance of impropriety, and Cecil could use the opportunity to glean information from the Contessa. Very well, Dorothea would learn more about Dufair. After a few desultory remarks about the weather—snow did seem to be in the offing—she said, “Tell me about yourself, monsieur.”
“There is little to say. I am one of the many poor émigrés taking refuge in England.” He smiled. “I have heard much of you, mademoiselle—that you have unusual views for the daughter of a man who is a staunch defender of the status quo.”
Did he hope to turn the conversation away from himself? “Sir Frederick allows me to think for myself. When it comes to the education of women, he advocates progress.”
“How admirable,” the Frenchman said, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
Ordinarily, she would launch into a defense of these views, but now she merely said, “You don’t sound convinced, but I assure you it is true. What forced you to flee your country? Are you from an aristocratic family?”
“My uncle, God rest his soul, was a minor noble. He and my father supported les Girondins.”
A throaty laugh up ahead caught her attention. Cecil must have said something amusing to the Contessa. Was he attempting to question her or simply enjoying the company of a pretty woman?
She set aside these unworthy and unaccustomed thoughts. She was used to avoiding men, not coveting one. He was assuredly doing his job, and in any event, it was none of her business. They had only shared kisses, after all—at her wanton instigation. She returned to her self-imposed assignment. “Was your father executed?”
He nodded. “Yes, alas. I was not arrested, but I would not have survived the Reign of Terror. I obtained false papers and escaped to England.”