My eyes flick down, catching the subtle shift in his stance, the way his fingers curl inside his pockets.
“Yes, I’ve changed my underwear,” he deadpans.
I press my lips together, suppressing the laugh bubbling up in my throat. “Good for you.”
“So?” he presses, a flicker of impatience in his tone now.
“So what?”
“Would you like to see me?”
I give him a slow, deliberate once-over. “See youhow, exactly?”
Naked, dick out, me on my knees?I don’t say it, but it hangs there.
“See me for dinner and . . . uh . . .” He shifts, clears his throat.
“And?” I ask, head tilting in mock curiosity. “And whatthen?”
So that’s what this is. He wants a bit of rough, and he’s trying toaskfor it in that upper-class way where they pretend they’renotactually asking.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not exactly opposed. Edward might be stiffer than his shirt collar in public, but what I felt earlier suggests he’s got plenty to . . . work with.
But I’ve already done the secret Cavendish shag routine with one brother. I know this dance—the exhausting choreography of trying to beenough.Smart enough. Witty enough. Beautiful enough.
It didn’t end well then, and I’m not daft enough to think this time will be any different.
“Uhh.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh, his jaw tightening like he already regrets opening his mouth. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”
Right.
I fold my arms, my tone flat. “So why exactly do you want to take me to dinner and . . . whatever it is you think comes after? Oh, and where’s thisgranddinner happening, then?”
He blinks. “My house?”
Of course. His swanky house. Tucked away, no prying eyes. How bloody convenient.
I narrow my eyes. “Why, Edward? Why do you want to have me over for dinner at your place?”
“To spend time with you,” he snaps, the words clipped. He rubs the back of his neck, frowning. “This isn’t going at all how I planned. Not that I had some grand plan, but apparently, ten years out of the dating world is enough to turn it into . . .this.”
Right. Time for the acid test.
“What about the opera?” I ask.
Because let’s be honest—hisrealplans involve a nice private dinner, followed by a quiet shag at his ridiculously expensive bachelor pad, where no one will see him associating with me.
But the opera?
Now that’s public. That’s Edward Cavendish willingly taking me somewhere full of people who actually know him.
And there it is. The flinch. He physically recoils, like I’ve just suggested we go dogging in Hyde Park.
“You enjoy the opera?” His tone’s all disbelief, eyebrows climbing.
What he’s really saying is:You? At the opera?
What he’s alsoreallysaying is:I don’t want to be seen with you in public, and also, you’re not as educated or cultured as me.
