She shook herself inwardly. Clearly, the less she knew about Lord Bromton—and his castle—the better.
“I have,” she said, “always disliked the grove’s name.”
“And what name would you have chosen?” he asked.
Haunted Grove of Mystery had been her childhood favorite. But just because Lord Bromton looked as if he’d stepped out of an Arthurian legend didn’t mean she had to resurrect fanciful notions.
“Picturesque Prospect, perhaps,” she suggested.
He squinted. “Is that an improvement on Vista Grove?”
“Well,” she dug in, “can you offer better?”
“In this light, I can confidently call my view,” his tone dropped an impossible octave, “bella.”
“Italian for beautiful.” She hummed. “I suppose bella would be a good choice, since vista is also Itali…” Her voice vanished.
“No, Lady Katherine, I wasn’t talking about the hills.”
Her flesh quickened in places no man had touched in years. She went hot, then cold. Then, horrifyingly, she tumbled back through the years.
“Am I pretty, Septimus?”
“You are a bothersome little hoyden,” he answered.
She twirled away in hurt and shame, but he caught her by her waist.
“Be still, Katie.” He kissed her head. “One day you’ll be beautiful—if you learn to behave.”
A vicious inner quake pushed out, threatening her limbs.
She had never learned to behave, had she? Why else would she be dressed in a costume, twisting ink-stained fingers, and practically salivating over a rakish marquess?
“I have offended,” he said.
“I think,” she forced, “you’d best escort me to my carriage, Lord Bromton.”
He did not move.
“Please,” she added.
“Please,” he mused, “is not quite as effective when said through clenched teeth.”
A blush traveled up her neck, spreading like mulled wine into her cheeks. Every word the marquess had spoken had been a calculated invitation to the worst in her nature. Even the semblance of kindness evaporated.
“You cannot believe your insincere and clumsy attempt at flirtation will work.”
“Insincere and clumsy, you say?” He snorted—the addle-cove. “Here, I thought I was bang-up prime.”
“You.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are not the first man to take advantage of Markham’s generosity in order to get a front-and-center view of the most unmarriageable lady in England.”
Those eyes—enthralling, liquid magnets—locked on hers with a hint of stifled surprise. Yes, it was that terrible. Worse still, the budding understanding within his gaze left her stripped, squirming, and wanting terribly, irrationally, to be held.
“Just England?” he asked, finally. “Not Scotland or Wales?”
She used her palms to cool her cheeks. “Just England.”
“I could have sworn Markham said kingdom.” His voice was calming and his smile wan, but there.
