Chapter Eight
When Beatrice enteredthe carriage, she could immediately tell that the Marquess of Leith was in a foul humor.
At the modiste, he had been the warmest and most charming she had seen him yet.
Now, the relatively relaxed man from this afternoon was gone.Instead, he was scowling in his dark evening clothes, the handsome lines of his face pinched up.He couldn’t manage to look unattractive, but, for all his handsomeness, he didn’t look welcoming either.
“Good evening,” she said, as the footman, a good-looking young man of about eighteen, shut the door behind her.
He nodded at her.The carriage lurched forward.
His gaze remained trained out the window.
Apparently, he was not in the mood for conversation.
She had worn the green dress that he had so admired, but he barely looked at her now.It was vexing.She remembered the heat in his gaze today in the dress shop… No, she wasn’tdisappointed.She shook her head.She was being ridiculous once more.
And, more to the point, she knew how to provoke a man to speech.Thatwas a talent that she had long possessed.
“Are you nervous, my lord?”
His gaze instantly snapped to her from the window.
“What do you mean, Miss Salisbury?”
“For tonight,” she said, with a bright smile.As if she were unaware of it, she brought her hand to her bosom.
He looked down.He managed to look away again, but she was pleased to see that it took him some effort.
“For the opera?”
“No, forafterthe opera.You have not forgotten our agreement, have you?”
He frowned.“I have not.”
“So, I am asking if your sour mood can be attributed to nerves.Are you nervous about bedding me, my lord?”
“Christ.Obviously not.”
“Then to what can I attribute your low spirits?”
“I am not in low spirits,” he spat.“This is the problem with women.A man wants a moment of peace and quiet, and suddenly he is in low spirits.”
“Very well.You aren’t in low spirits.It would be natural to be nervous, however.”
The carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestones.Outside the window, London was reveling—it was the time of night that held promise.Beatrice watched as a man in a hack driver’s costume pressed a kiss to the lips of a housemaid.The couple looked like they knew exactly what their evening would soon hold.
“Not for me.”
“Truly?”she said, breathlessly, leaning over slightly so that her breasts pressed against the absurdly low neckline.“Well, I find that I amverynervous.”
His gaze snapped from her bosom to her face.
“Are you?”
“Oh, yes.”
The look on his face—suspended somewhere between arousal and concern—was without compare.She couldn’t contain her mirth.
