He cleared his throat. “It’s grown a bit warm in here, don’t you think?”
She cast him a scowl. “You are trying to distract me.”
“Iam trying to distractyou?”
“Of course.Iam the one concentrating.” She stood back up and removed her fichu. “It is warm.” She draped it over his arm. “You don’t mind, do you?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Not at all.”
She stepped between him and the table. A tactical error. He hadn’t moved as far as she calculated, forcing her to wiggle past his thighs. His hot, hard thighs.
Billiards had suddenly become an exceedingly dangerous sport.
“Pardon.” She swiveled to face him, smiling sweetly.
“No pardon is required.”
Oh, bother. Flirtation was supposed to give her the upper hand. Flirtation was not supposed to make her aware of the air kissing her throat’s exposed skin or the ache in her breasts. She was not supposed to be wishing the billiards room had a door—a locking door. And her eyes were definitely not supposed to follow his jawline from his ear to his—
“Goodness.” She frowned. “That is quite a cut.”
“Your nocturnal staff is astonishingly solicitous. Ever try shaving without sleep?”
Heavens. She’d caused him injury. Blood rushed to her neck. Her cheeks. Her temple.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
His gaze narrowed. “No, you aren’t.”
She had been. She wasn’t any longer. She turned on her heel, leaned back over the table, closed one eye, and struck—using a single ball to strike two. A perfect cannon.
He growled low in his throat. “You’ve done this before.”
She plucked her fichu off his arm, careful not to brush him with her fingers. Then, she moved away to replace the bit of lace.
“This room is a man’s refuge,” she mocked her brother. “As if I would never make use of a perfectly good billiards table.”
“I can think of several novel uses right now.”
She stopped moving. He could not possibly mean what she thought he meant. The sensual implication left her breathless.
“I cannot say,” she said slowly, “I appreciate your tone.”
“Really…?” His voice was lower than she had ever heard. “You set the tone, Katie.”
“You do not have permission to call me Katie.” Only Septimus had called her Katie. How mortified he would be if he could see her now. “You may have deceived Markham, but you do not deceive me. Why won’t you just go away?”
Bromton allowed the silence between them to thicken like suffocating heat, all the while observing her with that look. That curious, aroused, searching look.
“Do you play often?” he finally asked.
She blinked. “Did you hear me?”
“You were heard and understood,” he replied. “Do you play often?”
“You seem to understand a great deal, yet you fail to comply.” She dropped her cue. “If you won’t go, I will.”
He stopped her mid-stride, putting his massive self between her and the corridor. In his eyes, she was already claimed. Her throat dried. He took a step forward, and she, a step back. He took another step forward, she, another back—the predatory dance ended when the back of her thighs hit the table.
