“Corner me, hmm?” Rosie had the audacity to stare blatantly as she sipped his wine. “And then what would they do?”
Bull’s knuckles tightened around the glass. “Dressed like that? They’d definitely try to kiss ye, Rosie.”
“Dressed like this?” She swayed back and forth, so the flared hem of her gown brushed against his buff-colored trousers. “Do I look like a kissable mermaid?”
Dinnae answer. Dinnae answer. Dinnae answer.
Bull locked eyes on a fern across the room and vowed to remember how to work his voice.
“Besides…” Rosie drained his glass of wine. “You are the one we should be concerned about. Running about dressed as Poseidon, with that positivelyscandalouswaistcoat.”
“It’s no’ a waistcoat,” he growled, gaze still locked on the fern.
“I know,” Rosie chuckled.
And then she slid her arm through his.
Her bare skin pressed againsthisbare skin. Aye, it was only an arm—and what’s an arm, in the general scheme of things? Nothing compared to a thigh or a tongue or a tit—Christ, dinnae think about her tits!
Past Bull really ought to have re-thought Present Bull’s costume.
At least as far as hiding a hard-on went.
But really, he was nothing if not sartorially proud, and this costume had been a brilliant design if he did say so himself. Which he did. Those years he’d spent studying fashion in Paris and Italy, thanks to his brother Rourke’s indulgences, had to be ofsomeuse.
However, none of his tutors had ever mentioned the necessity of hiding a raging erection under a toga.
Really. The damned thing was no better than a kilt when it came to hard-on concealment.
“Oh, look, Bull.” Her other arm—long, bare, adorned with garish fake pearls and bracelets made of mother-of-pearl—stretched out. “Another mermaid!”
The woman had hair a color of red not seen in nature, a loud sharp laugh, and was clinging to the arms oftwomen dressed—badly—as sailors. Bull studied their costumes with a practiced eye. They were poorly constructed.
But likely successfully hiding their hard-ons. Fook.
He shifted, hoping no one would notice. “A weak imitation, my dear.”
“Oh, I like it when you call me that.”
“I call everyone that.”
Another chuckle, then Rosie squeezed. “I know. I just thought tonight I could pretend to be special.”
Bull was ready to promise twenty Hail Marys if their contact showed up soon, and he wasn’t even Catholic. How much more of this could he stand? “Ye are special, Rosie.”
It wasn’t until she’d stiffened that he’d realized he’d said that out loud.
“So if you were to corner me,” she mused quietly—almost under her breath—"might you kiss?—”
“Ye’re drunk,” Bull interjected, gaze still locked on the fern. Could he count the leaves from here? Best to focus on something so innocuous. “Ye had two huge glasses?—”
“My father is Demon Hayle,” Rosie announced stiffly, running her bare arm alonghisbare arm. “Do not insult me. I have been stealing his whisky for years, I would not becomedrunkon two paltry glasses ofwine.”
It was the disgust in her tone that finally yanked Bull’s gaze back to her. Really, he had no choice, did he? Besides, the fern wasn’t nearly as fascinating. He plucked her goblet from her fingers and leaned sideways to hand both glasses to a passing servant before turning to give Rosie his full attention.
She was glaring up at him, and he suddenly saw hehadirritated her. Her bright eyes were framed by the green mask’s false pearls, the ones he’d glued himself, and her pupils sparkled with ire. He lacked the courage to claim the wine had anything to do with it, and realized he was smiling.
Smiling not because she was beautiful, although she was, and not because he wanted to charm her, which—damn him—he did.
