Not Proper Enough (A Reforming the Scoundrels Romance) (18 page)

If she was amused, so be it. He knew an opportunity when one presented itself. “I called her darling.”

“
Darling
.” She looked around, but there was no one near
enough to overhear. The corridor was all but empty. “I shall never be able to hear that word again without thinking of you and Addolorata.”

“Indeed? I shan’t be able to use that word without thinking of you.”

Her mouth twitched, and he was struck by what he could only call lust. “Don’t be wicked.”

“Why not?”

She met his eyes, and for a heartbeat, he had no breath. “Because it’s not proper.”

“What would be proper enough for you?”

She sent him a killing look.

What wouldn’t he give to die in her arms again? “Come now, you must admit that is a legitimate worry on my part. Both in general and in the specific. I ought to know what I am to call you.”

“What about ‘my lady’?”

He feigned astonishment. “Do you mean to tell me that when I am in the throes of passion with you, you would prefer I call out, ‘my lady’? You should have told me that.”

“Throes of passion.” Her eyebrows drew together. She held up a hand. She was laughing, and the joyous sound made his heart swell. “You really can’t call me
darling
. I’m sorry, but I’m likely to assume you mean your incomparable Addolorata. No, you’ll have to cry out, ‘my love’ or perhaps ‘goddess.’”

“Goddess?”

“Yes.” She smiled, and that nearly killed him, too. “You’ll think so, I promise you.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He turned so they faced each other. She was still smiling. “I’ll call you Ginny.”

“No one calls me that.”

“All the better.” He wanted her so badly, he ached. “I won’t worry that I’ve reminded you of some other lover.”

“Enough of this, Fenris.” She looked around again. “You ought to behave.”

“I don’t see why. You like me best when I don’t.”

She wriggled her fingers at him. “The button.”

“As you command.” He reached into his pocket for it. “You carry needle and thread, do you?”

Her expression suggested she did not think much of his intellect. “Half the women in London carry needle and thread. A lady never knows when she might find herself, or another, in need of a repair. Mind you, the thread won’t be a perfect match, but it will do so that you may continue your evening uninterrupted without resorting to blaming me for your imperfection.” She pointed to a bench on the opposite side of the corridor.

“We ought to go to one of the saloons. We’ll be more comfortable there.” He didn’t give her a chance to object. He simply took her arm and started walking. “I’ll buy you some refreshment while you atone for the error of your ways.”

H
E WAS ALONE WITH
E
UGENIA, IF NOT LITERALLY
, then at least in possession of her undivided attention, and that was progress on a scale he hadn’t dreamed of making with her in a public place. They did not speak while he escorted her to one of the smaller public rooms on the second floor. A few patrons walked the corridors, and as they passed one of the larger saloons, he saw that a good many more people of quality remained ensconced there rather than in the auditorium.

Eugenia kept her hand on his arm, and he, so daring of him, placed his hand over hers while they walked. Their encounter with that fool in the corridor and with Dinwitty Lane had, he felt, changed yet again the tenor of their relations. He reminded himself that where she was concerned, nothing was assured. But he still felt as if he had a claim on her that he had not had before.

Her opera gown was white silk with an overdress of blue that was cut away and swept back to just above the level of her knees. In the back, the blue material flowed into a modest train, though she was still required to lift it, from time
to time. She hadn’t Miss Rendell’s bounty, but her bosom was well curved. Without her medallion, she lacked jewelry around her throat, and that, oddly enough, only emphasized her bosom. She’d never been one to wear jewels; even tonight, at an event at which a woman often wore her best pieces, she wore only a pair of hair combs. It would be, he reflected, his pleasure to buy her jewels. One day, God willing, that would be appropriate.

He saw her to a seat in one of the smaller saloons, at a plush bench with a table drawn near, then ordered a coffee for himself and a chocolate for her.

He rejoined her, sitting beside her on the bench. Close, but not too close. He wanted to take her somewhere private, an inn, a hotel, his own home on Upper Brook Street, the Turkish room at Bouverie, if she could be convinced of that, and then prove the spark between them could be fanned into fire.

While they waited for one of the footmen to bring their refreshments, she took out her tortoiseshell etui and deftly threaded a needle with dark thread. He had the rare luxury of watching her without having to hide that he was doing so. Though he’d been attracted to her from the day he first saw her, maturity and experience of life had only improved her looks. He’d been such a bloody damned fool about her.

“This won’t take long.” She tied a knot in the end of the thread. A footman brought the coffee and the chocolate, which she eyed when the servant placed it on their table. She waited until the man, having pocketed the coin Fox gave him, departed.

“Is something amiss?” He crossed one leg over the other and stretched his arm along the back of their seat. Her gown molded her bosom, and he was viciously aware of her size and shape. God, what he would do if they were alone now, and she was naked.

She sniffed. “I only drink chocolate in the morning.”

“You can make an exception.” Must he always take the wrong tack with her? Because, of course, his high-handed reply brought a familiar stiffness to her demeanor. He
wondered if he did such things because he enjoyed maneuvering himself into a position of dominance over her. He did like winning. He expected to win, and he worked hard to make sure he did so more often than not. With her, perhaps he did enjoy the way she refused to give over to him. A worthy opponent made victory the sweeter.

“Chocolate in the evening makes me ill.” She drew his cup toward her. “I’d rather have coffee. Do you mind?”

“I do.” That response he made with full knowledge of the effect it would have on her. Which was to bristle at him, eyes flashing. He schooled himself to stillness, but when she looked at him like that he wanted to put her on her back and fuck her until neither of them could breathe.

“You should have asked me what I wanted.” She pushed her chocolate to him before she picked up his coffee and drank from it. “Mm. This is excellent.”

“The part of the man does not suit you.” He couldn’t help provoking her, but what else could he do? He knew damned well that if he attempted a traditional courtship, she’d resist with all her considerable will. She’d turn to someone like Aigen purely to provoke him.

She made a face. Eugenia, it seemed to him, delighted in provoking him. “I am an independent woman now. I play whatever part I wish.”

“Do you think so?”

“Why not?” She returned him a serene gaze. He rather thought she’d learned that particular reaction from Miss Rendell. “If I prefer to choose my own beverages according to what
I
should like at the time, then I shall, and you cannot gainsay me.”

He contemplated taking the coffee back and placing his mouth exactly where hers had been. She’d probably pour the chocolate on his head if he did that. “I see all now.”

“At last.” She drank more coffee. His coffee.

“My mistake with you from the start was a failure to treat you as if you were a man.”

“One mistake among many.” Her white cashmere shawl draped down to her elbows, so carelessly sensual. He wanted
to kiss her from her shoulders to the tops of her gloves, and then peel off the gloves and kiss his way down to her fingertips.

“First you take my coffee, next you’ll demand a cigar and a bottle of gin.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” She lifted her chin. “Perhaps I shall. A little blue ruin in the evening might be just the thing.”

“It would serve you right if I got you drunk and took scandalous advantage.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, then burst out laughing and dropped the needle on her lap. While she searched for and found it, she said, “Dear Lord, you can be amusing when you wish.”

“I am a man of varied talents, as you will discover.” Besides the two of them, there was hardly anyone left in the saloon. Servants, an old man who’d fallen asleep in a chair by the fire, and two other gentlemen. Not of the Ton, he thought. The next act must have already started. He plucked at the tear in his coat. “Speaking of your feminine accom-plishments?”

“I’ll have to repair the hole first.” She squinted at his lapel, glanced at him, then looked back at his coat. “I won’t darn it tightly. That way your valet can easily pick out this thread and use a better one.”

“Perhaps I’ll just buy a new coat.” The last remaining gentlemen paid up and walked out of the saloon, leaving them with the servants and snoring old man.

“Wasteful of you.” She took one more sip of his coffee before she scooted close enough to slip her hand underneath his lapel. He uncrossed his legs and turned his torso toward her. “Keep your head back.”

“Anything you desire of me, darling.” His position, quite happily, as it turned out, gave him additional opportunity to study her bosom. She hadn’t an extravagant shape, but the curve of her breasts was in no way inadequate, and he was a man who did like a woman’s breasts. Notwithstanding his appreciation of her in evening dress, he wanted to see her nude, to hold her naked in his arms—if they were in the
Turkish room at Bouverie, all the better—and suckle and lick and discover where she was most sensitive. Did she prefer a gentle touch? Did she mind a rougher hand? God help him if she did.

He prayed she might like that.

Her needle flashed, and he amused himself with imagining her naked breasts in his hands and mouth and reflected images of him touching her in just that way. While she stitched, he tapped the medallion now hanging from his watch chain with his other fob. “To think such a small thing brought us to this pass.”

“What do you mean?” She used a tiny pair of scissors to snip the thread then tied another knot in the thread hanging from the needle.

He smoothed a finger over the surface. The metal was warm. “This. Cousin Lily’s medallion. The magic drew me out of Camber’s box in time to prevent you from a very uncomfortable situation.”

Still concentrating on her needlework, she didn’t look up, but he saw her forehead crease. “The magic isn’t protective.” He could see a smile curving her mouth. “The medallion brings lovers together, as you well know.”

Fox took a moment before he replied. “I believe that was my point. I wonder how soon you’ll be inexorably drawn to me. Again.”

She continued to sew. “I fear it’s broken or has lost its magic. I’ve worn it diligently and slept with it beneath my pillow, yet I’ve not been thrown together with a gentleman who makes my heart race, met no mysterious strangers. No beaux send me letters declaring their love. No dreams of my future husband.”

“What?” He waggled his eyebrows. “The medallion causes you to dream of your future beloved, and you’ve not once dreamed of me? You’re right. The deuced thing is broken.”

“My dear man, I don’t have dreams about you. I have nightmares.”

“You wound me.”

She laughed.

“What sort of man could win your heart?” She hesitated, and he cursed his clumsiness because he knew the answer. She had found the man she loved. “Someone like Robert,” he said softly. “Honorable. Amiable. Intelligent. A man everyone likes. Never out of sorts. Never cross.”

“Not never.” She smiled—sadly, he fancied. “But yes, rarely.”

“I am sorry for your loss. You know that, I hope.”

Eugenia looked away, then back at him, and he saw the sadness there. “He used to leave me notes to find. I never knew where or when, and some he’d hidden weeks or even months before, if he’d tucked them somewhere clever. I’d open a drawer and there’d be a scrap of paper, and he’d have written a poem for me or related his memory of a time I’d made him smile or laugh or weep.”

“That sounds like him.” He could see Robert penning a note like that, then hiding it for his wife to find some future day.

She went back to sewing. He caught a flash of gold as she held the button to his coat and began to reattach it. One day, he thought. One day, the two of them would once again sit in just such a domestic scene, but in his version of the future they were husband and wife. The image felt so real to him, so inevitable that he had to remind himself no such thing had yet happened. She finished with the button and brought out her tiny scissors again.

“He wouldn’t want you to be alone. Robert.” He paused until he was certain his voice wouldn’t sound thick. “He wouldn’t want that for you.”

She snipped the thread and sat back, eyeing his coat. She gave his chest a pat, with no thought, sadly, to the intimacy of the gesture. “No.”

Impolitic words rose up.
Marry me, Ginny. Marry me, and you won’t be alone.
He did not say them.