“I think that you had better try again,” he ground out, not bothering to spare her feelings after her trickery.
More fluttering of her thick lashes. “My beloved bag of wind? That certainly sounds endearing, and shockingly appropriate…”
He wanted to laugh. And throttle her. And possibly kiss her.
Definitelykiss her.
What the hell was the matter with him? He was not meant to find Lady Clementine Hammond or any of her machinations humorous.Ye gods, it was punishment enough that he’d been cursed with the misfortune of being the only other person in proximity when she’d had her altercation with the bee.
And did not that very sentiment say it all? Who else had ever had analtercation with a damned bee? No one but the vexing woman before him, he was sure. Who else in the world had managed to have a bee fly up her skirts and sting her inner thigh whilst she was not wearing drawers?
If he’d not been the poor fool who had rushed to her rescue, he would have had quite a laugh over it, he was sure. Mayhap not with Rothbury. The marquess was something of a storm cloud after what had recently happened to him. Mayhap Lord Wilton. Then again, the viscount was a right proper bore…
“You are looking at me strangely,” Lady Clementine said, dragging him from his tumultuous thoughts. “Have I misspoken?”
Had she misspoken?
Damnation.When had shenotmisspoken?
Why could he not shake the feeling that he had been faced with two different versions of Lady Clementine Hammond? And that neither of them was the true Lady Clementine?
She had gone from being closed off and angry with him to ridiculously pleased with the idea of granting him insulting sobriquets. The truth was plain. She was a calculating, cunning minx.
Just as he had thought.
“My beloved bag of wind?” he asked.
“Oh dear.” She gave him a new, innocent smile that made his cock rise once more, for there was nothing innocent about this calculating witch who went aboutsansdrawers. “Do you not like it?”
“You may call me Dorset,” he repeated his earlier entreaty, more pointed this time. “And I shall call you Lady Clementine.”
She pursed her lips. “Hmm.”
That mouth of hers.
Something overcame him. Stupidity? Lust? He could not be certain.
Mayhap both, but he was speaking before he could think better of the words tumbling from his own tongue.
“Since we are betrothed, I think it is only fair for us to mark the occasion with a kiss.”
“A kiss?” Her smile faltered.
“Just one. Are you amenable?” His head dipped toward hers and her scent—jasmine with a hint of something deeper and more exotic—filled his nose.
It was the same scent that had taunted him the entire time he had carried her from the gardens to the door of her guest chamber. He did not want to be amused by her, to long to kiss her, to like the way Lady Clementine Hammond smelled. He had no intention of admiring her fortitude.
And yet he was, and he did.
“Yes,” she said. “No. That is to say…I suppose. One chaste kiss.”
Ah, triumph.
He slid an arm around her waist, drawing her close, anchoring her to him. Her hands settled on his chest like twin, reluctant butterflies. She swallowed, and he followed the movement down the pale skin of her throat. Perversely, he wanted to set his mouth there.
Instead, he lowered his head completely.
At the last moment, she turned, offering him her cheek.
