“You should call me Dorset,” he told her calmly. “That is what everyone calls me.Because it is my name.”
He spoke slowly, enunciating with care. Perhaps Lady Clementine was not the most intelligent specimen of the fairer sex. Mayhap she was a trifle touched. It would hardly be surprising. Why else would she take such great delight in fomenting the misery of others?
“Of course everyone calls you Dorset.” She wiggled her fingers in a dainty, dismissive fashion. “But I am to be yourbetrothed. I should be on far more familiar terms with you than everyone else.”
Was the woman mad, or was she a featherbrain? Or was this some sort of trick? He could not be certain. All he did know was that she had seemed deuced irritated with him when he had first arrived in the library, despite his rescue of her.
Curse it. When he thought of how precariously the ladder had been situated, and when he thought of how she had pitched to the floor…
He stopped himself from contemplating the rest with a shudder, before returning his attention to the meat of the conversation.
“We are only temporarily betrothed,” he reminded her, despite the enjoyment he had taken in taunting her with the sham betrothal.
“No one else knows that, however. If we are to be convincing enough to persuade our fellow guests, then we must at least make an attempt at playing the part of besotted betrotheds.”
“Besotted?”
Her smile deepened, and he found himself once more transfixed by the gloriousness of her lips. “Yes. Besotted.”
Stop looking at her mouth, you stupid arsehole.
He raised a brow. “Our fellow guests are aware of the reason for our betrothal. That is sufficient. Moreover, no one who knows me will believe I would ever marryyou. No sense in keeping up a pretense.”
The moment the words emerged, he regretted them. Lady Clementine’s shoulders sagged and the corners of her mouth turned down in the most expressive frown he had ever beheld. Had he been too blunt? Too callous?
“Of course,” she said quietly.
Two words. The most succinct sentence she had spoken in their admittedly short—and yet somehow far too long—acquaintance. Aside from her horrified shrieks ofbee, that was. But then, her brevity had been caused by her desire to see the insect in question removed without suffering injury. This time, it seemed to him thathehad been the cause of the injury.
A strange thing happened.
A pang, in his chest.
Guilt? Surely not. He would have sworn Anna had rendered him incapable ofallemotions when she had ransacked his heart and set it aflame, leaving it to burn to insignificant ash as she married the Marquess of Huntly.
May Huntly’s cock rot off, he added as an afterthought.
Lady Clementine said nothing. Her lips, irritatingly plump and prettily pink,as if she had just been thoroughly kissed, drew his attention yet again. They were pressed together now in thin, sad lines.
Hell.
“What manner of diminutive?” he found himself asking.
And then promptly wished to kick himself in the arse.
“Something lovely. Something appropriate as well, true to your character and form. Your ears are very large, my lord. I could call you my big-eared rogue, if you like.”
He scowled, suppressing the urge to touch his ears, which he was reasonably certain were proportionate and not at all bloody welllarge. “That sounds more like an insult than an endearment.”
She blinked. “Oh dear. Does it? What do you think ofmy callous coxcomb?”
She was toying with him, the outrageous woman. Surely she was. She had to be.
Unless?
Mayhap she was a feather-wit after all? But nothing in their limited previous interactions had suggested she was. She was either a fool or an incredibly cunning woman.
He was inclined to believe the latter. Her history spoke for itself.
