Instead of looking put off, she only raised her brows. "I suppose I am not the only one with a reputation to protect. You have one, too, don't you, Mr. Hunt?"
He liked her astuteness even less than the sympathy. "May I take your, er, bonnet?" he said abruptly.
"It's a turban," she said. "It's supposed to stay on."
Not if he could bloody help it. But he'd pick his battles one at a time.
"Your cloak then," he said, reaching to her shoulders. As he removed the velvet, he had a moment to savor her tremor of awareness before a pungent odor assailed him. Holy hell. His eyes started to water, and his body shook with the sudden force of his sneeze.
"Bless you," she said sweetly.
His nostrils quivered in warning, and he took a step back.
"Oh dear, I hope it isn't my new scent," she said. "The perfumist blended it specially for me. 'Tis essence of lilac and lily-of-the-valley."
No wonder she smelled like a cross between a dowager and a hedge.
His eyes narrowed upon her gown, which furthered her similarity to a prickly old bush. It wasn't as if Percy tended to seductive clothing (more the pity), but tonight her gown eschewed her usual fresh, unaffected style for a look that was... well, frankly, repugnant. The dress matched the sickly shade of the towel upon her head, and rows and rows of frilly things decorated the shapeless monstrosity which covered her from chin to toes.
He wanted to see her lithe, nubile form. He wanted to rip the frock off and fling it into the flames of the fireplace. Most of all, he wanted to know what the minx was up to—though he had a pretty good inkling.
"Took special pains for the evening, did you?" he said.
She smiled, looking pleased with herself. "I didn't want to be caught unprepared again. Vauxhall was a distraction. From here on in, I plan to approach our wager with the utmost prudence."
"A distraction. Is that what you're calling my kiss?"
Satisfaction rose in him as her smile wavered.
"The mayhem overexcited my nerves. A momentary lapse," she muttered. "It won't happen again."
The hell it wouldn't. Whether or not she realized it, she'd just thrown down the gauntlet, and he'd never been one to resist a challenge.
He waved to the seating area adjacent to the supper table. "After you."
Since the wingback chair by the fire was occupied by her large, knobby knitting bag (did she plan to mend a pair of socks this evening?), Percy had no choice but to take a seat on the satinwood sofa. He sat down next to her... and sneezed again.Damnit.
"Perhaps you'd be more comfortable at a distance," she suggested.
"I'm fine where I am," he growled.
"Suit yourself."
He forced himself to calm. He looked to the coffee table in front of them, which held a platter of his chef's tantalizing hors d'oeuvres and a bottle of the best vintage. "Would you care for some refreshment before supper?"
"No wine for me, thank you. I prefer to keep my head clear. And I shan't be requiring supper, either."
He scowled, glancing over to the carefully laid out supper table. Apparently it was going the way of his well-laid plans. "Why not?"
"I am on a slimming plan."
"What the bloody hell for?" he said, incredulous. "You're slender as a reed."
Not in all parts, praise God, but the notion of Percy reducing was nothing short of asinine. Equally ridiculous was the way she then proceeded to launch into a lecture of her imaginary flaws. Not only her weight, but the shade of her hair, her insignificant nose, her too-full lips. 'Twas a conversation common enough amongst other females of his acquaintance—and the kind that usually signaled the rapid exit of any self-preserving male.
He'd never pinned Percy for a hen-wit. His jaw tautened.
"Oh, I could go on forever on this subject." She peered guilelessly up at him. "Ladies have ever so much to chatter about, don't they? And I am a lady after all."
