How to Woo a Reluctant Lady (19 page)

Still, he felt compelled to warn her that he wasn’t going to play nice just because she had declared that he should.

“I assure you, Minerva, a man can cover a great deal of ground between taking advantage and ruination.” He covered her hand with his. “A very great deal.”

“Oh?” she said, her eyes shining with mischief. “How so?”

He glanced around at the people they were passing—a young couple sitting arm in arm on a bench, a man feeding the ducks, an older woman walking briskly along the river—and lowered his voice. “If we were alone, I would remove your bonnet and lace collar so I could see your neck. I love your neck. It has the most interesting dips and curves, and it’s quite elegant when it’s bare.”

Her fingers tightened on his arm and she stared straight ahead, two spots of color pinkening her pretty cheeks.

He kept his voice low, husky. “Then I’d unbutton your gown very slowly, so I could kiss your back through your shift after every button was undone. I wonder if your back is as lovely naked as it seems to be when clothed.”

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to keep wondering,” she said a bit unsteadily.

“Will I? There’s no reason I can’t look at your naked back. It certainly wouldn’t ruin you. Indeed, there are a great many parts of you I can touch and caress and kiss without doing the dirty deed. Like that delicate stretch of skin on your inner thigh just above your knee. I could put my mouth there, kiss up the inside of your leg until I reach the forbidden—”

“Stop,” she whispered. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“I’m arousing you. Not the same thing at all.”

She swallowed. “You’re trying to seduce me with words.”

“Is it working?”

A couple passed near them, and she remained quiet until they were out of hearing. “I won’t let you seduce me, Giles. Put that right out of your mind.”

“What a pity,” he said softly. “You badly need seducing, Minerva Sharpe.”

Her gaze shot to him, hot and irate. “Why on earth would you say that?”

“Because you see marriage as a loss of independence, without taking into consideration its benefits. I daresay if you had a really good taste of them, you would be less inclined to throw out the baby with the bathwater.”

“I thought you already gave me a taste, in that inn.”

“That was more a sniff than a taste. What I intend would go beyond a few brief touches. You would end with as thorough a knowledge of that particular benefit of marriage as I could
offer without ruining you. That is, if you’d allow me to give it to you. Is that possible?”

She blinked, then jerked her gaze away. When she remained silent, his pulse quickened.

“Suppose I were to . . . let you give me a taste,” she said at last. “Only a taste, mind you. Not anything that would cause me trouble later. Would you be willing to do so without . . . ‘doing the dirty deed,’ as you call it?”

His body responded instantly to that remark, and he groaned. “Must you say things like that in public, for God’s sake?”

“What do you mean?”

He lowered his voice to a hiss. “Remember yesterday at the inn? My ‘pistol’ is making an appearance, thanks to you.”

She glanced down at his trousers, which only made them bulge more obviously. Then she lifted a mischievous gaze to his face. “Whatever will you do, now that you’re in this . . . state?”

“Conjugate Latin,” he said tersely. “Think of England. Think of anything but you and me doing—Bloody hell, there it goes again, and we’re nearly to Rotten Row.” He stopped short and stepped behind a bench with a high back that sat near the river.

She stood next to him, pretty as the proverbial picture, her eyes dropping to his trousers with virginal curiosity.

“Would you stop looking at me
there
?” he growled. “You’re not helping.”

She laughed. “You’re the one who started it by trying to seduce me with words. Serves you right if you have to suffer for it.”

“You, my darling, are a tease.”

Her smile faltered. “Am I?”

“You know damned well you are. You only mentioned my giving you a taste in order to plague me.”

“Actually, I was serious. And you didn’t answer my question.” She swallowed. “If I let you . . . give me a taste, could you control yourself and not go beyond that?”

“I’m not the one you should worry about.”

She cast a condescending look at his groin, which did more to dampen his arousal than conjugating Latin ever had. “I think you’ve proved that you’re
not
in perfect control of your . . . faculties, shall we say?”

“Trust me, a man is always in control of his ‘faculties’ when it comes to the point of no return. The question is whether
you
can control
your
faculties. Because I promise I would never seduce you against your will, my darling.”

Her breathing grew erratic. “And I would never give myself willingly to you. It would destroy all my plans.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” he said smoothly. “If what you want is just a taste, you can have it.” He lowered his voice. “As long as I get mine, too.”

“You are such a rogue,” she said.

“Only a rogue would agree to what you’re proposing.” With his arousal firmly in check, he took her arm and headed back to the path.

She said nothing as they strolled along Rotten Row. She merely smiled and waved at the few people still promenading in their carriages near dusk.

When they were headed toward the barracks, she looked up at him with a serious expression. “I don’t understand you. How can you be a clever and responsible barrister who’s a prospective K.C. one moment, and a rogue the next?”

“Practice.” She had no idea how true that was.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Which one is the real you?”

“Why can’t I be both? They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“Aren’t they?”

He shrugged. “Obviously
you
don’t think they are. You have Rockton playing the rogue and a spy at the same time.”

“Only to heighten the drama in my story. But it’s not a good idea to heighten the drama in real life. It makes things far too complicated.”

That was certainly true. “Look at it this way. I spend my days in a serious business, making sure that justice is meted out to those who deserve it. So at night I need to be less serious, even a little wild. Otherwise I would run mad through the streets.”

“So which half of your life am I a part of? The serious half or the wild half?”

“Today? Both.”

They were walking through a copse of woods, so he pulled her behind a tree and kissed her hard on the lips. “Tell me the truth. Are you sure you want me to give you a taste?”

She swallowed hard. “Yes.”

As his pulse jumped, he ran his thumb over her lower lip. “Then tomorrow morning, I’ll see if I can find out more about the official report. In the afternoon, I’ll meet you at the—”

“No, not tomorrow. The day after, when Oliver is meeting with the tenants at a tavern in Ealing. That way we have less chance of running into him.”

He nodded. “I’ll have to rearrange some appointments, but I can manage it. I’ll meet you at the hunting lodge at ten, day after tomorrow.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Yes. We lads used to play cards there before—” He caught himself. “I’ll look at the scene and deduce what I can. Then you and I will have a lovely picnic somewhere we’re unlikely to be discovered, and I’ll give you the taste you crave.” He cupped her face in his hands. “But I warn you—if you should find
yourself ‘willing’ to be seduced after all, I’m not sure I’ll be able to say no.”

“Don’t worry. That won’t happen.”

He was tempted to kiss her and remind her how easily it
could
happen, but that would ruin his plans. Besides, she’d find it out for herself soon enough.

“Day after tomorrow, then,” he said, brushing his lips over hers.

“Day after tomorrow,” she agreed.

Tomorrow was going to be the longest damned day of his life.

Minerva headed downstairs for breakfast early on the appointed day in hopes that few of her family would be up.

No such luck. Celia and Jarret were debating the merits of the new Manton breechloader Celia had just purchased, and Oliver and Maria were explaining to Gran why they believed that Mama’s old bedchamber would make a better choice for a nursery than the one the Sharpe children had been raised in.

“We want the baby close by,” Maria said. “And I don’t use the bedchamber anyway.”

Jarret stopped to quip, “No doubt my brother keeps you far too busy in
his
bed to allow you time to sleep in any other.”

“Sleep? What’s that?” Oliver drawled, and the two idiots laughed together.

Maria rolled her eyes. “The point is, your mother’s bedchamber could easily be refitted as a nursery. It’s huge, and it’s not far from Jarret and Annabel’s room, so it would be suitable for the child they’re expecting, too, as long as they’re living here.”

With a sigh, Minerva served herself some ham, cheese, and toast from the sideboard. The endless discussions of the two impending babes were beginning to get on her nerves.

Not that she didn’t like children. She did. But the thought of being responsible for a tiny life—the thought of failing a child the way Mama had in the end—gave her shivers.

Then there was everything she would have to give up to be a good mother. She remembered only too well how wistfully Mama had talked of writing and how opposed Papa had been to it.

Giles wouldn’t be opposed.

She frowned. He said that, but she wasn’t sure she could believe him.

So why was she planning such a daring escapade with him? Had she lost her mind?

Perhaps. Or perhaps she just wanted to experience the madness of having a man touch her, caress her, see her as someone desirable in her own right, and not merely as a means to an inheritance. She didn’t know why, but she wanted to believe that her money really didn’t matter to Giles.

She was an utter fool. She was playing with fire. And she didn’t care.

Last night she’d barely slept for excitement about seeing him today. The very idea of being alone with him in the woods had ramped up her imagination to feverish heights. The way he’d spoken to her, the things he’d said . . . Would he really put his mouth on the inside of her thigh, so close to . . . to
there
? He’d put his hand there at the inn, and it had been quite delicious.

“Will we be seeing Mr. Masters today?” Celia asked.

Minerva nearly jumped out of her skin. Her sister had the most uncanny ability to sense the direction of her thoughts. Hopefully not the
entire
direction.

She pasted a smile to her lips as she took a seat at the table. “I doubt it. He’s in court.” It was the only plausible excuse she could think of for his not paying a call on her.

“Is he?” Jarret said. “He didn’t mention it when Gabe and I saw him yesterday morning on our way into town.”

“You saw him?” she asked, then cursed herself for sounding like some lovestruck schoolgirl wanting news of her latest beau. She forced herself to butter her toast nonchalantly. “Where were you?”

“Ealing, actually,” Jarret said. “It’s so close by I thought he might be headed this way, but he said no, he had business there that would take him most of the day.”

He’d been trying to get the report from the constable, no doubt.

Jarret eyed her thoughtfully as she ate a piece of ham. “He did say that we should give you his love.”

It’s a figure of speech
, she reminded herself when her pulse gave a little flutter. Love
isn’t a word in Giles’s vocabulary—it’s for “fools and dreamers,” remember?

“Did he?” She squirmed under her brother’s continued scrutiny. Jarret had been watching her the past two days with a peculiar concentration that made her extremely nervous. “How sweet of him.”

“What business could Giles Masters possibly have in Ealing?” Oliver growled.

“I believe he has a client there,” she lied, then kicked herself for it. There she went again, lying for him. What if Oliver asked him about his client? Worse yet, what if Oliver asked in Ealing if anyone knew what Giles had been doing?

She had no business trying to cover his tracks. He was a grown man—he could take care of himself.

Folding her buttered toast around slices of ham and cheese, she ate it like a sandwich. “I thought you had a tenants’ meeting today, Oliver,” she said brightly, determined to turn the conversation away from Giles.

“It’s tomorrow. We had to put it off because of an issue with the new calves.”

Her gaze shot to him. Oh Lord. She’d counted on Oliver not being on the estate.

“What are you doing today?” Oliver asked conversationally.

“Writing.” Not wanting him to probe into the when and where of it too deeply, she said, “So you’re thinking about turning Mama’s bedchamber into a nursery, are you?”

“We have to do something. The child will be here before we know it, and our old nursery is too cold and far away from the rest of the rooms for our liking.”

He and Maria exchanged a warm glance, and a sudden stab of envy pierced Minerva’s heart.

Envy? That was ridiculous. She had exactly the life that she wanted.

“Perhaps you could help with it,” Maria said. “I could use another woman’s opinion.”

Minerva tamped down her panic. “Sorry, Maria, but I’m taking a long walk after breakfast.”

“I could go with you, discuss ideas for the nursery—”

Everyone burst into laughter.

“What?” Maria asked.

“When Minerva announces she’s taking a long walk,” Oliver explained, “that means she definitely doesn’t want company.”

“If she wants company,” Celia put in, “she says, ‘Is anyone up for a walk?’”

When Maria looked bewildered, Jarret said, “Minerva walks when she’s having trouble with the book she’s presently writing.” He grinned. “She walks
a lot.
”

“It helps me think,” Minerva said defensively. And for once, her predictable habits would keep her family out of her hair.
“Perhaps I could help you this evening,” she went on.
After my adventure in Giles’s arms.