Mistakes? He made them. Far too many to count. But defeat was not and had never been an option. Defeat by Miss Hazel Elizabeth Montgomery?Never.
“I am not hungry,” she announced, stoic.
“You do not think you are,” he corrected her, for he had given the bottle a black eye many a time in his younger days. He was more than familiar with the aftereffects of overindulgence the day after making merry. And he knew the best cure for what ailed her was food. Food, water, and rest. Also, bed sport. But that was not going to happen.
No bloody chance.
Unless the Duke of Winchelsea clambered into her bedchamber window later on. Which was unlikely indeed, for many reasons. First, Winchelsea was too dignified for clambering. Second, the likelihood of the duke surviving such a clamber was poor, since Miss Montgomery was staying on the second floor, and Lark House did not possess any architectural marvels which would facilitate such an endeavor. Lucien knew, because his younger sister was beautiful, and he had been acting as her father for many years. A man who had been wild himself in his younger years knew what to look for when protecting his women.
And third, if Winchelsea attempted to bed Miss Montgomery beneath Lucien’s own roof, Lucien would take great joy in beating the man to a pulp, regardless of whether or not he was Lucien’s senior in the Home Office. He had little left to lose.
“IknowI am not hungry,” Miss Montgomery interrupted his tumultuous thoughts then. “I thank you for this tray, truly I do, but I cannot force myself to eat a bite.”
Disturbed by the vein of his thoughts and the protective urge he inexplicably felt for the maddening woman at his side, Lucien clenched his jaw. Counted to fifteen. Inhaled, then exhaled.
Felt not at all like himself. But that was rather too bad. He was beginning to realize everything about Miss H.E. Montgomery left him bewildered, frustrated, and filled with…yearning.
No. Good God, no.Irritation. Yes, that was more apt.Farmore apt. She filled him with irritation.
But he still wanted her to eat. Shehadto eat.
He picked up a cherry tartlet, then raised it to her lips. “A bite, Miss Montgomery.”
“My fingers are in functioning order, Mr. Arden.” She frowned at him.
Unmoved, he pressed the tartlet to her mouth. “Open.”
To his amazement, she did, revealing a neat line of even, white teeth. And she took a bite. Her surrender should not have an effect upon him. But there had been something unbearably erotic in the way she had opened her mouth at his directive, accepting the tartlet. The manner in which she obeyed him. This somehow felt like more of a victory than tricking her into drinking too much port had.
He watched her chew the confection slowly, then swallow.
“Better?” he asked.
Her lips pursed. “Do not pretend as if you care.”
Her sharp retort almost made him smile. “I do care. I have no desire to be covered in your vomitus.”
Desire.There was another word he should never utter in Miss Montgomery’s presence. For even though it shared a sentence withvomitus, a splinter of warmth pierced him anyway.
“No one would deserve it more,” she said sweetly, before reaching for the tray and seizing the glass of water.
She gulped down the contents with a gusto that did not surprise him. More tendrils of hair had escaped her chignon, framing her face in wild little curls. The sight of them entranced him. For some reason, he had supposed her hair to be straight. But now he wondered how the glossy mahogany strands would appear, unbound down her back. A riot of rebellious curls? Soft waves?
And then he reminded himself he must cease all such unwanted mental inquiries into Miss Montgomery as a woman. He was aiming to rid himself of her, not to seduce her, for God’s sake.
She settled her water back upon the tray with a lusty sigh. “Not lemonade, but far preferable to port.”
Lemonade. Of course she would prefer a drink which was tart. He ought to have guessed.
He held up the tartlet. “More?”
She eyed him warily. “I think I like you far better when you speak in one-word sentences, Mr. Arden.”
“And I like you better when your mouth is otherwise occupied,” he returned, only realizing the double entendre too late.
Devil take it, what was the matter with him? And why was he suddenly plagued by the notion of her mouth occupied by his? Or, even more wicked, by another part of his anatomy entirely?
She did not appear to take note of the secondary meaning however, simply giving him an admonishing look, before reaching for another tartlet and plucking it from the tray. Raising her brows, she took a bite.
