“I said you look ravishing, my dear.”
She looked at him, shocked for a moment before turning away. “Oh, well, you look passable, I suppose,” she replied.
It was too late. He had already seen the blush on her cheeks. Perhaps she was not so immune to his charms after all. He smiled to himself. Was she nervous or just indifferent? He quite liked the idea that he might make her nervous.
When she turned back, all traces of maidenly embarrassment were gone, replaced by a fierce look of displeasure. Had he mistaken her blush? She took the few steps it required to stand before him.
He raised a brow and let one side of his lips lift. “Pray, don’t strain yourself with such compliments, Countess; they will only go to my… head,” he said as he looked down at hers. She was staring at his jacket, her fingers hovering just above the superfine of his jacket. He could not help but admire the elegant slant of her neck and shoulder, the glorious consistency of her pale skin, the pulse at her throat, and the fine dark curls at her nape. His gaze traveled lower. The soft rise and fall of her breasts as they strained at her low neckline was hypnotizing.
She remained silent, her long and graceful fingers on the gold buttons of his dark-blue jacket. He watched her, fascinated. His heart thumped madly. His throat constricted and his hands flexed. What was she doing to him? Did sheknowwhat she was doing to him?
Slowly and with determination, one button, then another, then another slipped through their moorings. She was undressing him? A request for his permission would have been nice. Not that he would have said no.
This little exercise is going to seriously dent her carefully crafted schedule, he thought, as he watched her beautiful hands at their work. Thankfully she had allowed fifteen minutes for fog in her schedule. Perhaps fog had been a code all along. Even in his dreams, where such thoughts had free reign, he would not have expected her to be so… bold. It was thrilling, uplifting—in more ways than one.
She reached in under his jacket and… what was she doing with his pocket watch? She’d pulled it out and flicked it open as if it weren’t still attached to him.
“I believe that belongs to me,” he said to break the tension between them.
She looked up at him. “As I suspected,” she announced. “You’re slow.”
His mouth fell open. She didn’t seem to notice for she was too busy re-adjusting his… slowness. Was she trying to issue an insult or was she really talking about his watch?
All he didknow was she was close, very close, and that mysterious scent of hers had filled his nostrils like an oriental drug. He wanted more, much more.
He stepped closer, his own hands itching to span her waist, lift her off the ground, haul her Viking-style over his shoulder, and take the stairs two at a time. He would definitely need more than fifteen minutes!
Her gown was much more to his liking than the black sack she’d worn last night. He wondered how long it would take to get it off her. It showed a lovely amount of décolletage, and the style was much more flattering to her curvaceous figure. Yes. He would enjoy taking it off, indeed he would. It took him a moment to digest the color. It was so dark only the shimmer of the lamplight showed it to be a glorious midnight blue and not black at all.
Oliver’s hands were nearly touching the tiny beads at her waist when she stepped back and away from him.
“Have you quite finished with your inspection, Bellamy?” Her voice laced with a threat.
He grinned. “Not really, Countess, but the night is young.” He gave her a wink and went to reach for her again. The unfamiliar yet unmistakable feel of the cold muzzle of a small pistol jabbed his stomach. His hands came up instantly.
“Good God, woman! What the devil are you playing at?”
“Surely, you are not surprised?” She pointed the gun away from him and put it back in her reticule.
“Is this a joke? What can you be thinking, pulling a cheeky stunt like that?”
Her look was all innocence, and for a moment he could picture her at any given night on a Drury Lane stage posing poetic about betrayal and love lost.
“I thought you ought to know I will be keeping this in my possession at all times.” She turned then, picking up her gloves in one hand. “Oh, and Bellamy? I don’t take kindly to manhandling or being called,Countess. Perhaps you ought to remember that also.” She put on one glove before adding, “Now hurry, we must keep to the schedule.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at her retreating form. “Well, this is a grand start!” he muttered to the now empty room. “I don’t take kindly to female-handling either.”Well, at least, not much.
He spared a glance at Blackhurst. Unbelievably, Oliver was actually beginning to feel sorry for him, not to mention himself. As if having to escort a suspected murderess around town wasn’t bad enough, now he had to contend with her being an armed bedlamite as well. Luckily, he was not a man to run from danger. A serious character flaw he was sure. It was not as though she would really shoot him with that tiny thing, would she?
He shook his head at the ridiculous thought. What did she plan to do, shoot him if he ruined her schedule? He took his time getting into the carriage. He didn’t want her to think her little pistol ploy had scared him into a state of obedience. Although he was very aware she had a firearm at the ready, probably aimed at his heart, or lower.
*
“You know,” hestated when the carriage was underway. “It isn’t very ladylike to carry around loaded pistols. What if it were to go off in your reticule? You could shoot your foot off, or worse, shoot mine off.”
Lisbeth raised an eyebrow. “Your foot is safe, Bellamy,” she assured from the shadows, “for the moment.”
“Do you really think it is necessary to have it on you at a ball?” he asked, shifting a little on the seat opposite her.
