She was being unreasonable, but her body didn’t care. It wanted what it wanted, and it wanted him.
He picked up one, then another, article of clothing and calmly dressed as if this night was a usual occurrence. A storm gathered inside her. The dratted man was entirely too self-possessed for her liking. A need to throw him off balance and keep him that way until he was gone from this room rose.
“Who would have thought you could kiss like that?” came out of her kiss-crushed lips. Surprise sparked in his eyes, and a little thrill fired through her. Good. It was a lie. But it was one she must tell herself, one she must tell him, and one they both must believe.
He cocked his head. “Who wouldn’t?” he asked, daring her to continue with the lie.
“You’re so very reserved. I would’ve thought your lips starched as stiff as your shirt.” Her fingers skated up and down the doorjamb, as if she was bored.
“Lady Olivia, I think we both know what’s as stiff as my starched shirt.”
She made herself go very still and keep her eyes locked onto his. She wouldn’t look. She wouldn’t use her peripheral vision, either.
He began walking toward the door. Toward her, her traitorous heart suggested. Her attempt at controlling the situation was reversing on itself. She held up a defensive hand. “I think that’s enough—” She stopped mid-sentence. She’d almost completed it withfor now.
“They’re lovely, you know.”
Her arms crossed protectively over her chest.
“The sketches, my lady,” he clarified, the beginnings of a smile playing about his mouth.
“A narcissist, are you?” she threw out, a cover for the satisfaction that streaked through her at the sound of his praise.
He shook his head at her, like she was an obdurate school girl. “The beauty isn’t in the subject, but in the artist’s rendering of it.”
He came within a few feet of her. She would have to step aside or risk letting his body collide with hers. For a split second, she considered the latter. Its risks. Its rewards. But, at the last second, her feet acted sensibly and allowed him room to pass.
When he drew level with her at the doorway, his stride shortened and his pace slowed. For one wild second she thought he hesitated, that he would stop. But he didn’t. He rounded the corner without a backward glance.
Her gaze fixed absently on the room before her, she slumped against the wall. This time she permitted herself to collapse to the floor in a puff of ballooned silk skirts.
The taste of scotch lingered on her lips . . .
The imprint of his gorgeous, capable hands lingered on her skin . . .
The unrequited craving of lust lingered in her sex.
And she thought she’d drawn this obsession into submission?
Perfect little mess, indeed.
~ ~ ~
Mina had been in a few grand homes in her life—her father’s new mansion came to mind—but never one as grand as the Duke of Arundel’s.
Her gaze lifted toward the ceiling stretched to near infinity above their heads as she and Lucy stood in the foyer awaiting her father. She spied tiny angels peering over fluffy clouds painted onto its surface.
“Too bad ceilings can’t be stars all the time,” Lucy said.
Mina nodded. Lucy had the most charming way of turning words.
The girl reached out for her hand. “We must make a plan to see each other again. Soon?”
She gave Lucy’s hand a testing squeeze, and when Lucy’s eyes lit up in a smile, Mina knew it had been the correct action to take. She’d never had a friend like Lucy. Nannies, teachers, servants, and stars had been her friends. And Father. He was a friend, too.
But never a friend like this. A girl. A silly, frilly, delightful girl who used words the way artists used brushes.
The sound of footsteps echoed down one of several hallways that fed into the foyer. Mina turned toward the sound, expecting to see Father round the final corner, but it wasn’t he who came into view. It was a boy. No, not a boy precisely—he looked to be a few years older than her—but boyish. Not yet a man.
