His charm, though legendary, had little effect on the woman, unless one considered an increased degree of insolence on her part a show of success. His generosity of spirit and forbearance as he showed her how to be a lady she only repaid with cheek and scorn.
His lips curved upwards. He did appreciate a saucy woman.
As they rolled through London’s streets, he wondered: what would it take to seduce Netta Pickle? And how big of a mistake would it be?
Chapter Nine
“That’s absurd.” Netta slouched back in her chair and crossed her arms. The man was mad. Even in her days as the accomplished and learned daughter of Viscount Darby, she had never, not once, been instructed to walk with a book atop her head.
“A woman must glide when she enters a room.” Summerset placed the thick tome on the crown of his head and provided her with an example. “She must exude a lightness of foot and a grace of motion.”
Netta scowled. Damn him if he didn’t appear to float across the parlor. The heels of his lavender suede boots made nary a sound as he made his way from one end of the room to the other. His hips remained motionless as his elegant legs stretched, one after the other, in an easy saunter. When he stood before her, he bowed deeply, catching the book as it tumbled from its perch and sweeping it as flamboyantly through the air as though it were a feathered hat.
He straightened and dropped the book in her lap. “And that is how a lady walks.”
She looked at the size of the book, examined the size of his head, and sighed. It was no use. Nothing could deflate his ego, not even a sound thumping.
“This isn’t difficult.” He tugged at the billowing lace cuff of his shirt. “A lady should be polite, witty, and composed at all times. And when she enters a room, she must—”
“Bloody glide. I know, I know.” She rolled to her feet. “But turning me into a blasted bookshelf won’t do nothing to help me glide. I’m not a swan, you know.”
“Won’t do anything to help you glide.” He shook his head. “I do believe for every double negative you use, I’ll tell cook to serve you one less of those puddings you so enjoy.”
She gasped, and caught the book as it tumbled from her head. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He merely quirked an eyebrow.
Yes, of course he would. He was the sodding Earl of Summerset, and if ever a man dared, it was he.
All right. She balanced the book back on her head. Time to start rapidly improving her speech. Those puddings were delicious. Far better than the offerings from the little bakeshop around the corner from her apartments.
She took a wobbling step forward. Perhaps she should start a bakeshop when she and Eleanor arrived in America. She’d never made anything before in her life, but she could learn. She was—
“Drat!” She swiped the book from the Persian rug. “I hope this book holds little importance to you,” she said, overenunciating her words. “For it is sure to be bent and ragged by the end of this silly lesson.”
“It’s not silly, and I have two more copies of that particular edition.” He tipped his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing with your hips? A woman’s hips shouldn’t thrust and bobble in that manner.”
She gritted her teeth. No man had ever complained about her bobbling hips before. She muttered something rude under her breath, which, of course, he heard.
“I would have made a marvelous woman,” he replied. “Perhaps in my next life I’ll be so fortunate. But as we are stuck for the moment in this life”—he moved behind her and placed his hands at her waist—"be so good as to move just so.” He fitted his front to her back and urged her forwards.
Netta sucked in a breath. He was warm and hard in all the right places. He wrapped an arm around her middle, his palm splayed beneath her breasts, and a delicious shiver danced down her spine. She wasn’t as free with her affections as some of her friends in the theatre, but she also wasn’t some untried girl. She knew when a man moved well, and how that would translate into his bed sport.
And the earl movedverywell. With a casual press of his hand there, a nudge of his thigh there, he glided her about the room.
He bent his head, his breath hot on her ear. “How does that feel?”
“Quite nice.” She swallowed, trying to bring moisture back to her mouth.
They came to a standstill, his hand still pressed indecently to her belly, his thumb just grazing the underside of her bosom. He was folded around her like a luxurious velvet coat. She could feel the steady beat of his heart against her back…and when it kicked up its pace.
He was as affected as she.
“Do you think—”
A scratch at the open door ended her question, and it was probably for the best. Nothing good could come from what she was about to suggest.
Nothing except good, sweaty tupping, she thought with regret.
