With a laugh he kissed her quickly and slipped the guinea into her pocket, out of sight of others but in a sliding touch that she could not ignore.
She almost faltered, but pursued her plan. “I’m so grateful that Englishmen don’t wearmustaches,” she said as they went down the steps. “So ticklish.”
“Vast experience, I gather.” But he stopped her midflight and kissed her more thoroughly, the slide into her pocket firmer and more challenging. “You’re cheating, my pet.”
“We established no rules.” As they continued down the steps, Genova saw that all eyes were on them, but the mood seemed indulgent. “So youmustnot object. Am I taxing your fortune?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said as they reached the gravel and he drew her into his arms. “I canmuster the price.”
As his lips met hers, Genova recognized a familiarity. Her own lips, her body, shaped themselves to hiswithout thought. She’d come to this stage with Walsingham. It had taken weeks.
She pulled away. “You stole one I’d prepared, but that doesn’t matter. It only needs the word.Must, must, must, must, must!”
She danced away as she said it. He pursued and captured her, his eyes bright. This would, she realized, work perfectly to convince everyone they were besotted lovers.
She waited for five more kisses.
He kissed her hand, then up her sleeve to brush the last kiss against her sensitive neck. It seemed time paused for a heartbeat at the sweetness of it.
“To spill out guineas might raise questions,” he whispered near her ear. “WhatmustI do?”
Genova disengaged, adjusting the set of her cloak. “I will remember what you owe me.”
He smiled. “I’m sure you will.”
“It’s a lovely day,” Genova said, taking a step away and looking around at the sun-gilded estate. She needed recovery before the next foray. “Exercise in the fresh air is so invigorating.”
“Indeed.”
With memories of Malta, she understood his innuendo. She gave him a look. “Not in England in December, sir.”
“But you give me hope for summer.”
“By summer, I gather you will be married to Miss Myddleton.”
His brows rose. “Do you? I look to you for defense.”
“Come now. You want to continue this mock betrothal for six months?” It would shatter her. No, melt her. Evaporate her.
“Why not?” he asked. “A suit of armor is always useful.”
“I’m afraid I can’t oblige. I have a mind to marry, and soon.”
“Why?”
“I’m twenty-three years old.”
“But hardly desperate.”
She saw no harm in telling him the truth. “My father has remarried and I’d like a home of my own. In fact, I hoped to meet suitable gentlemen here.”
“And I’m in your way. I see, but selfish aristocrat that I am, I intend to hold you to your bond.”
It caused a frisson, but of course he meant only for the next few days. Genova saw Miss Myddleton eyeing them and prayed she never let her hungers show like that.
“Don’t marry Miss Myddleton unless you love her, Ash.”
Now, where did that completely inappropriate statement come from?
