Her gaze went to him now, studying. Appraising.
If he had indeed suffered a blow to the head, the effects did not seem destined for a reversal any time soon. Her eyes inventoried his lean frame. In his buff breeches and superfine jacket, with his pristine cravat and white waistcoat, he was the first stare of fashion. Every bit the Corinthian. So magnificent to look upon that she nearly ached. Yearning, unwanted and unexpected, tore through her.
There was no one to come between them as he stalked toward her with undeniable intent. They were alone in the cheerful little salon where her mother preferred to receive family and close friends. Not even her abigail Jane dozed nearby. There was no one. No one who could save her. No one who could keep her from acting the fool and succumbing to him.
She rose from her seat, prepared for flight.
He smiled knowingly at her perusal, his dimples making her heart thump fast against her breast once more. “Freckles.”
She retreated from him as he advanced, until her back pressed against a wall and she had nowhere else to go. He flattened his palms against the cheerful wallcovering on either side of her head and pressed his sturdy frame against hers. For some reason, her eyes would not seem to move from his lips.
“Warwick,” she said, for she, who had never been at a loss for words in her life, suddenly found she had nothing coherent to say.
His head bowed, until his mouth hovered a fraction from hers. “Your brother has given me permission to wed you in your father’s stead, though I have also written Revelstoke, as a courtesy.”
Her stomach bottomed out, much the way she expected it would had she been trapped inside a runaway carriage. A sharp, unexpected thrill mingled with shock and fear. It was true. The Duke of Warwick—the bold, self-assured rake pinning her in place with his large body and simmering presence—meant to marry her.
Meant to marry.
Her.
Lady Lydia Brownlow.
The words, like the realization, seemed to settle upon her haltingly. With them came the most ludicrous, pure burst of unadulterated joy. For a fleeting moment, the urge to press herself against him and turn her face up to receive his kisses soared through her.
Then, like any bird who had flown to impossible heights, she crashed to the Aubusson at her feet. No one had consulted her. Of course, Rand had not asked her if she desired such a match. Neither had Warwick. Mother had been deliriously happy at the prospect. They were all so very certain of her, and why would they not be?
It was a foregone conclusion that she, spinster and wallflower with no other suitors who had come up to scratch, would marry a handsome duke. Heavens, it was a foregone conclusion she would wedanygentleman who asked for her hand.
How lowering.
She cocked her head, studying him. He was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes upon, whilst she was commonplace as a sparrow. Why would he wish to marry her, when surely he had his pick of every diamond of the first water on the marriage mart? Lady Felicity, for instance, who was also in attendance.
“You wish tomarry me? Me, Warwick?” If her tone was incredulous, it could not be helped, for her shocked mind spun in a deluge of questions, concerns, and disbelief.
“You,” he agreed intently. His eyes bored into hers. At long last, his large hands settled upon her waist, finding it without err beneath the billowing muslin of her gown, his grasp possessive and not at all unwanted. “No one else will do.”
He dipped his head then, his mouth seeking hers. She may have sighed into him, opening for the thrilling quest of his tongue. She may have run her tongue against his, tasting him, the spirits that he must have shared with her brother during theirtête-à-tête. He was dark and decadent and everything she had never imagined she would want.
He kissed her with a slow languor that set fire to her from the inside. She felt flushed, aching, desperately in need of something she could not yet define. Something only he could give her. And she wanted it, how she wanted it. Wanted him.
But the logical part of her balked. That part of her had far too many questions that needed answers. She pulled her mouth from his with reluctance, staring up at him and noting that the dashing grin remained upon his lips. Lips that had kissed her. Soundly.
Looking upon him now, she rather felt like the child she had once been, gazing with longing at the most perfect apple on the tree. High over her head, the apple had been fiendishly out of reach. Now, it was as if the best apple on the tree had fallen into her lap. Hers to scoop up and savor.
With a swallow, she forced herself to find her composure. She was not ordinarily given to flights of fancy or romantic urgings. It was not her way. But this—Warwick—was changing everything. Kissing him was akin to looking into the night sky and seeing a new star for the first time, realizing that nothing was ever constant, that the universe was one of limitless possibilities.
The way he looked at her, the way he kissed her, she could almost believe this possibility was her new reality. But she would not capitulate so easily. “If you are to be believed,” she said slowly, “you truly wish to marry me. Yet you have not yet askedmeif I should like to wed you, Warwick.”
His dimples disappeared, and she wished she could say their loss dampened the blinding effect of his masculine beauty, but the plain truth was that it did not. Nothing could diminish that tousled, mahogany hair, those slashing cheekbones and wonderfully formed lips, the flashing blue eyes, or his wide, angular jaw.
His right hand left her waist, and while she inwardly protested, he quickly mollified her as he trailed a finger down her cheek. Somehow, he had removed his gloves without her taking note, for his hand was bare. Skin met skin. Warmed and tingled wherever the firm pad of that long finger touched.
“You did not yet give me the opportunity, my dear, and I shall remedy it now.” His finger stroked down her jaw to her throat, leaving a trail of fire. “I have never met another lady whom I admire more. You are intelligent, capable, and lovely, and all that is kind and good, despite your propensity for referring to me as a sapskull.”
He won a laugh from her, the rogue. “Youarea sapskull, Warwick.”
But his words had warmed her in a place she hadn’t known existed, deep inside. Could it be true that he admired her mind and that he thought her lovely even when she knew she was not? Or was it merely false flattery from a man who had a whispered string of conquests numbering in the dozens?
