“My given name. It is Ambrose. Formality between the two of us seems fruitless in the darkness, does it not?”
She could not argue. What was it about the night that made her somehow more inclined to confide in him? In the absence of her dear friends, he seemed almost like—dare she think it—another friend.
Albeit a friend she wanted to kiss.
No.She must stop all such wayward thoughts. Banish them to the ethereal clouds above and then beyond.
“It does,” she agreed with great reluctance.
Because the recollection of his mouth on hers was a burning, decadent memory that threatened to undo all her good intentions.
“Ambrose, then.” He gave her fingers another squeeze and leaned his shoulder into hers. “Deuced better thanmy beloved bag of wind, would you not agree?”
She found herself chuckling. “But I thought I was to call you Dorset. Because it is your name.”
How could a shoulder pressed against hers feel as intimate as a kiss? She could not say. And yet, it did. She was at once aware of his searing warmth, his inherent strength. He was much larger than she was, and yet she did not feel overwhelmed by his height or his masculine form. Quite the opposite, in fact.
He leaned into her some more, his head canted in her direction. “I shall make an exception for you.”
His sudden tenderness toward her made a strange, fluttery sensation burst to life in her stomach. She was not sure she liked it.
Or him.
Yes I do. At least, I like his mouth on mine.
“Stop that,” she muttered to herself.
“Stop what?” he asked.
Oh dear.She was chastising herself aloud now. Could her mortification be any more complete?
“Pitying me,” she said.
“I do not pity you, Clementine.”
She took note of the familiarity in his tone, in his foregoing of the honorific. “Then why are you being so nice to me?”
“Was I not nice to you before this evening?” His voice sounded darkly amused. “I rescued you from a bee sting and a fall in the library.”
So he had. But that had been different.Hehad been different than he was now. More distant, and not just in terms of physical proximity. Was it the darkness or her admission that had rendered him less bitter, no longer as harsh as he had been before?
“You did not save me from the sting,” she pointed out, leaning into him before she could think better of the action, their shoulders and elbows rubbing together.
“I suppose not. Merely from walking after you suffered from the unfortunate injury. How is the sting feeling?”
More concern for her welfare from the Marquess of Dorset?
“It no longer hurts.” Instead, it itched rather dreadfully. But she was not going to tell him that.
“I reckon it is deuced itchy,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.
Her cheeks went hot, and she was grateful for the darkness of the night that would keep him from seeing her reaction. “Not at all.”
“Hmm. Does your lady’s maid not have some cream or potion to aid you?”
“No,” she admitted quietly. “She does not.”
“About a year ago when I was in the countryside, I was riding my mare when we riled a wasp nest. The blighters were overzealous with their stinging. My valet whipped up a concoction that eased my discomfort. I shall check with him for you.”
