This news did not surprise her. She did not care for the viscount, who was the sort of man who never listened to a word spoken that wasn’t his own. “He is a reckless gamer, then?”
The duke’s brows snapped together. “The worst sort, and not at all deserving of a lady like you as his wife. Who else?”
She tried—unsuccessfully—to squelch the burst of warmth his words ignited within her.A lady like you.What could he mean? She wanted to ponder it longer, but he waited expectantly, wishing to hear the rest of her list of gentlemen friends. “The Earl of Fulham.”
“Far too old,” he said dismissively. “What others?”
“The Marquess of Vale, Viscount Elmhurst, and Sir Stephen Montgomery.” All men she did not care for. Not one of them made her body burn as if kissed by flame with the mere act of sitting beside her.
Oh dear.From where had that errant thought come?
“Vale is a rake, Elmhurst is a simpleton, and Sir Stephen is a drunkard,” Warwick pronounced. “Is that the lot of them?”
She nodded, aware that he still held her fingers tangled in his grasp and his thumb had begun a lazy exploration of her inner wrist. Circles, of all things, and tantalizing in the most alarming fashion. She should snatch her hand away, and yet she did not wish to. His blue eyes held her entranced. He leaned forward, lowering his head as if to impart a secret.
“You forgot one.”
His deep, decadent voice sent an unfamiliar sensation, molten and pleasant, vibrating through her.
The combination of his penetrating regard, nearness, and touch undid her sufficiently enough that she could not follow his logic. She frowned, trying not to become mesmerized by the perfect shape of his mouth or the surprising fullness of his lower lip. Trying not to imagine him setting his lips upon hers.
Kissing her.
“Forgot?” she repeated weakly, thinking for a foolish moment that they were speaking in different languages. Or that he was taking part in a dialogue to which she was not privy.
“Yes.” His smile was blinding in its beauty. He flashed even, white teeth. The corners of his eyes crinkled. His dimples revealed themselves. “Me.”
She had seen those mesmerizing grooves on many occasions over the years, but she did not recall ever once being the direct cause of them. Or the sole recipient, for that matter. For a moment, they stole her breath. And then she recalled, belatedly, what he had just said.
Lydia gathered her wits. “You are not my suitor, Warwick.”
His wicked thumb traveled ever higher, up the sleeve of her prim, white muslin dress, making her pulse leap. “And yet, Freckles, here I sit.”
He was jesting, of course. For some reason, he had decided to make her the beneficiary of his rakish games.Ennui, perhaps? She supposed he had attended the house party to entertain Rand, who had been quite displeased at the prospect of having to attend. It did not matter. She would not be his source of amusement. She needed to put an end to his nonsense. Immediately.
She snatched her hand from him. “Do not make light of me. I will not be your joke.”
“I would not jest about such a thing, my dear.” His smile faded, taking with it the dimples that so distracted her. “I am deadly serious when it comes to you.”
Surely, she was in the throes of some sort of odd dream. At any moment, she would awake in her bed, and this entire interview with the Duke of Warwick would be revealed for the flight of fancy it undoubtedly was. There was no reason that the handsome rake she had grown up admiring—the same man who had never once looked upon her as a female, who had instead blazed through a series of whispered demimonde conquests, who had every marriageable lady in London hanging upon his every word and deed—would court her.
Unless…
Her eyes narrowed. “Have you made a wager at your club, Warwick?”
He shook his head slowly. “No, Freckles.”
His regard grew in intensity. Why was it so dratted hot in the room? Winter had already set in early, and with it, the unmerciful cold she had come to expect later in the season. Surely, the source of the warmth could not be the lone fireplace crackling on the far end of the chamber, its flames dying more and more by the minute.
Certainly, it had not seemed this stifling when she had entered. She sidled left, away from Warwick’s large, lean form. Perhaps the heat emanating from him was the culprit.
“This is a mission of mercy perpetuated by my brother,” she guessed next, trying to ignore how unsettled she felt. “You are pretending to court me to quell the worries of my parents as a favor to Rand.”
“Wrong again, Freckles.” A rueful half smile curved his sensual mouth. “As much as I consider Rand the brother I never had, I would not play suitor to anyone merely because he asked. Which he most assuredly did not, I assure you.”
Her mind whirled, the natural proclivity she’d always possessed for science making her certain there was a logical reason behind Warwick’s sudden change. “It cannot be because of my dowry, can it? I understand it is quite generous, but surely there are any other number of ladies with papas who have plump pockets. Or any one of the Misses Winter. They are lovely, all of them, and their fortunes are as large as they are renowned.”
“Freckles.”
