Mon Dieu. She wasn’t joking.
“I don’t really joke, Mr. Beckman,” she said softly.
“Of course.” In that moment, she seemed to fold in on herself, her spark dimming.
Dash didn’t like it.
He leaned forward, voice gentle, coaxing. “Ah, but I have seen you tease, princesse. You jest when you are in a race. When you take a gentleman’s hand to assist you to your feet.”
The corners of her mouth twitched despite herself.
“I suppose I do—sometimes. But not about this.” She twisted her napkin nervously. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
The pieces she gave him did not fit neatly together. If her marriage had not been white… then how, in God’s name, could she have never been kissed?
But no—he could imagine the answer. Mon Dieu.
And yet here she sat before him.
Dreadfully naïve. Fiercely determined. Frighteningly unafraid.
And un-kissed.
Perhaps their meeting truly had been fate.
“I cannot allow such a sad injustice to stand,” he said lightly, though his chest felt strangely tight. “Remind me again—how old did you say you were?”
She frowned. “Six and twenty.”
“Six and twenty,” he repeated, shaking his head as if in mock despair. “A travesty. Six and twenty, widowed, and never been kissed? Princesse, that is a crime against nature. Yes, I think we shall most definitely have to remedy that.”
Her head snapped up, her green eyes blazing. “Absolutely not, Mr. Beckman.”
“No?” He didn’t even try hiding his grin, pleased to see her eyes light up again. “Come now, Madame Bloomington, admit it. You’ve wanted a kiss since you watched me through that window.”
She was blinking almost frantically.
“No! I mean, well, perhaps.” Mon pauvre cœur! She was priceless. “But you mustn’t say things like that, Mr. Beckman. It isn’t…” She glanced around the empty room and leaned forward. “You just shouldn’t.”
Perhaps.
“You would deny us both?” Dash teased, even though the room was feeling much warmer now.
“If you kissed me, then—I could not allow you to escort me to London. It would not be proper… I mean, I know that, already, our dealings are likely frowned upon, despite the fact that I am a widow and all. But… I would judge myself…”
The hint of shame in her tone sobered him. She wasn’t warning him off—she was protecting herself.
“You prefer to go on without me?” he asked, softly now.
“Oh, no.” She bit her lip, and he watched the motion far too closely. “I appreciate the added safety of your presence. And… I don’t want you to miss your party.”
Safety. Perhaps not so naïve.
“And…” she added shyly, “for all that, I rather like your company.”
The resulting ache in his chest was unexpected. “I rather like your company too, Madame Bloomington.” He reached for his napkin, trying not to stare at her mouth this time. “You are safe from my kiss… but only for tonight.”
“I—pardon?” she asked, blinking at him.
