“No.” His taunt grated. She had been three and ten—thank you very much—and it had been a silver birch.
He laughed. That laugh that conveyed that he knew he was right. Tabetha stomped her right foot on the ground, and then immediately regretted it. Not only did it fail to make any sort of satisfying thump, but she might as well have been barefoot for all the protection her slippers afforded the bottom of her poor foot.
Mr. Spencer laughed again. Drat, the man!
“A kiss isn’t going to tell me anything.” Heat seeped up her neck. Discussing something as intimate as kissing with a man such asStone Spencer, of all people, made her feel warm all over. She removed her fan from her sleeve, snapped it open, and waved it beneath her chin.
She would never discuss such a topic asromantic relationswith any of her actual suitors. Doing so would be most inappropriate. And if she was to land an appropriate husband, she’d best be careful to behave in an appropriate manner.
Unfortunately, knowing that did absolutely nothing to curb her curiosity. And for as long as she’d worn her hair up, she’d been curious.
Curious about all of it.
Her mother’s explanations were vague and dismissive at best, and even her recently married sister Bethany refused to share any real details regarding the act of consummation. Bethany did, however, flush beet red before changing the subject.
Tabetha sensed that she was wearing her down though and would ask her again. A girl needed to know these things, after all.
But that did not mean she should be discussing them with her brother’s cow-handed untitled friend.
Mr. Spencer turned so that he was facing her. “A kiss would reveal that you are not physically compatible with him.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He certainly was arrogant for being asecondson.
And… cocksure of himself. And as much as she hated to admit it, he was also inordinately handsome. Tabetha ignored the shiver that ran down her spine.
He shrugged, as though he didn’t care if she believed him. Which had the effect of irritating her almost as much as the shiver did.
“You’re terribly certain of yourself for a person who refuses to support his opinion with any reasoning.” A part of Tabetha, the very proper part that was intent upon becoming a duchess, niggled her for encouraging him. She ought to return to the ballroom without delay. She ought to locate her mother, or Bethany or Felicity, and pose prettily on one of the chairs while waiting for her next partner to find her. She glanced down at the dance card looped to her wrist and felt a burst of excitement—the Duke of Culpepper. And it was the supper dance. Afterward, he would lead her into the dining hall.
If he asked to walk her in the gardens, she would accept. And if he attempted to kiss her, she would allow it. Of course, she would be physically compatible with Culpepper. Mr. Spencer thought he knew everything… Well, he was wrong on this count.
“You’ll learn someday.” His mocking voice broke into her musings, implying that his own experience went far beyond hers and covered all the erotic delights London had to offer.
“Not from the likes of you.” She hated not having the last word with this vexing creature. And it wasn’t as though she could easily shelve such a disconcerting issue. All manner of scenarios of Mr. Spencer’s carnal exploits floated through Tabetha’s brain—scenarios that depicted the blasted man doing things she probably shouldn’t be thinking about.
That she most definitely shouldnotbe thinking about. She needed to return inside so that she could focus all of her efforts on Culpepper. The man who would make her a duchess.
“I shouldn’t have brought the subject up.” He sighed, and she couldn’t tell if it was a regretful or dismissive one.
“And yet you did. But no need to concern yourself. It’s not as though I’m a child. I’ll simply learn these things on my own.”
“In all seriousness, My Lady, I’d rather you not.” He looked almost pained. “At least not until your brother has you in hand again.”
In hand again? Blast him!
“You’re welcome to return inside now.” Her blood boiled at his condescending attitude. “I am perfectly capable of protecting myself.”
“You are, are you?” Mr. Spencer crossed his arms in front of him. “And what would you do if a gentleman demands more than a kiss? What if your brother or I aren’t nearby to step in?”
“I’ll plant him a facer. That’s what I’ll do.”Unless the man is Culpepper.
Mr. Spencer did not look amused at her assertion, nor did he look impressed.
Rather, he tilted his head and eyed her up and down, making her squirm. It was almost as though he was considering one of the thoroughbreds at Newmarket. Before she could chastise him for it, he stepped away from the wall.
“Show me.” He dropped his arms and planted his feet shoulders’ distance apart. Of course, he would challenge her on this. When he wasn’t smothering her, she knew he spent most of his time at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Academy. Likely, he was an honorary member of the Pugilist Club.
There hadn’t been a single day that she hadn’t noticed fresh cuts on one, if not both, of his hands—once, near his eye.
