“You look particularly lovely tonight,” he said, touching the back of her hand and letting his fingers linger on the fine, smooth skin there. “Pink suits your coloring.”
“Thank you,” she said, turning her head to smile at him.
“I suppose you know,” he said, “that your father visited mine in Bath a couple of weeks or so ago.”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“And you know the nature of that visit?”
“Of course,” she said again.
Her face was still turned to his. She was still smiling.
“You are not in any way upset by it?” he asked her. “You do not feel perhaps that your hand is being forced?”
“Of course not,” she said.
“Or that you are being rushed?”
“No.”
He had wanted to be sure of that. It was all very well forhimto accept that he needed a bride and that this woman was the best available candidate. But it took two to make a marriage. He would not have her pressured into marrying him if she would prefer not to.
“I am delighted to hear it,” he said.
He would not take the next logical step of asking her to marry him now—he had not yet spoken to her father, and he had the distinct impression that that might matter to her. But he supposed they were one step closer to being officially betrothed.
She did indeed look lovely in pink, a color reflected in her cheeks and highlighted by her shining blond hair. He bent his head to kiss her. But she turned her face before his lips could meet hers so that they grazed her cheek instead. Then she drew a little farther to her side of the carriage. She was still smiling.
“Have I offended you?” he asked after a few moments.
Perhaps she thought kisses inappropriate before an official betrothal.
“You have not offended me, Lord Attingsborough,” she said. “It was merely an unnecessary gesture.”
“Unnecessary?” He raised his eyebrows and gazed at her perfect profile in the gathering dusk.
The carriage rumbled onto the bridge over the Thames. They would be at Vauxhall soon.
“I do not need to be wooed with such foolishness as kisses,” she said. “I am no silly girl.”
No, indeed she was not, by Jove.
“Kisses arefoolish?” He was suddenly amused and bent his head closer to hers again, hoping to coax a smile of genuine amusement from her. Perhaps he had merely flustered her by attempting to kiss her.
“Always,” she said.
“Even,” he said, “between lovers? Between a husband and wife?”
“I believe, Lord Attingsborough,” she said, “that members of polite society ought to be above such vulgarity. Kisses and romance are for the lower orders, who belong there just because they know nothing of wise and prudent alliances.”
What the devil?Good Lord!
He was amused no longer.
And it struck him suddenly that in all the years of their acquaintance there had never been any moments of flirtation, any knowing glances, any forbidden touches, any stolen kisses—any of those little gestures between two people who were aware of each other sexually. He could not even remember a time when they had laughed together. There had never been the faintest hint of romance in their relationship.
But all that was about to change, surely.
