“Not at present, my lord,” she answered at last, daintily dabbing her embroidered napkin to her mouth. “I have begun hunting for a new governess for them, to be educated at home.” She chose not to add that the previous governess had left for lack of payment. “What of your family, Lord Stride?” Eleanor attempted to keep her voice as artificially light as his own.Turn it back on him, as natural as breathing.“I confess myself surprised that a lord as handsome and eligible as yourself is not yet married. I regretfully know little of gargoyle culture, but is it not a priority for you or your family? Are you unconcerned with being without an heir?”
His smile hardened out, a tiny flinch she might have missed had she not been staring him down, a thrill of victory rippling beneath her skin.Have a dose of your own medicine, you smug bastard.
“I’m certain I have plenty of time to secure my own line of succession, but thank you for your concern, Miss Eastwick. In any case, my sister is carrying her first child, and I’ve no doubt they will be more than capable of carrying on the family title in the event I prove unworthy.”
She was not expecting him to allude to any sort of unworthiness, for she never expected any man anywhere to admit that he was ever wrong about anything. She tried to imagine what his sister was like, and wondered if she was just as smirking and haughty.
“Of course,” he went on, immediately dispelling any assumption that he wasn’t an absolute blackguard of the first order, “I do find the act of marriage a bit daunting. Courtship may seem like a lark, but after the consummation, which is about the only part that interests me, what exactly is left?”
She didn’t give him the benefit of her shock at his brazenness, knowing it was what he was after. “If half of what the High Tea writes about you is to be believed, my lord, it seems after consummation, your bride would next be likely to meet . . . well, another man of your own character, I suppose.”
Icy white laughter, like a breath of frost, making her wish she’d brought a shawl.
“I suppose that would serve me right, would it not?”
Ignoring his glibness, the unexpected familial disclosure piqued her interest. “How many siblings do you have, my lord?”
“Two. My younger sister Maris, and an elder brother.”
It was her turn to raise an eyebrow.An elder brother? Yet he’s the one with the title?“Forgive me, my lord. Perhaps I’m a bit confused as to how lines of succession work. Your elder brother . . .”
“Is base-born,” he finished succinctly. “My father’s first wife died shortly after they were married. Mourning in our culture is a lengthy affair, but that did not prevent him from taking a mistress, one who bore him a son. After the appropriate time had been observed, my father remarried, which is how you have the pleasure of dining with me this evening, Miss Eastwick.”
“Oh,” she whispered. She felt that curious flip-flop in her stomach once more, like a fish on the riverbank, desperate to get back beneath the surface of the water and hide from its lack of courtesy, but before she could apologize, the Marquis continued.
“I do suppose it is a bit uncommon that my brother was raised in the household alongside us,” he went on, a half smile curving his ebony lips. “At least until he came of age. My father bought him a commission in the Navy, and that was that. We correspond through letters, but I haven’t seen him in several years.”
“That’s so sad,” Eleanor murmured. “I confess, when I lived abroad, it was many months in between seeing my sisters, but my heart ached for them the entire time we were parted.”
“Ah yes, that unusual bit of time you spent away from home. I do assume the education you acquired while living abroad to be of a scholarship you were unable to acquire on our own fair shores?”
Eleanor did not like the look he was giving her then, a knowing smirk spreading on his face, recaptured in his claws.As much truth as you can give.“I attended the conservatory of music, my lord, and also Sister Winnifred’s finishing school for young ladies. But as I said, ‘twas hard to be away from those I love.”
“And why is it that you are only now seeking a marriage? Forgive me, but it does seem that your first season ought to have been —“
“Quite a few years ago?” she cut in, interrupting him for a change.Remember what he said. Let the flirtation flow through the conversation. This is a game, and you want to win.“You’re quite right, my lord. I suppose you could say I am a bit of a late bloomer. Although . . . the flowers that bloom last tend to open most fully. Those fair young buds that bloom in spring are often withered and limp by Midsummer, while the late bloomers are still lush” — she held the finalshhhas if bestowing him a secret — “and resplendent.”
He was grinning, and Eleanor had to fight the preposterous inclination to smile back. His look was still penetrating, the drag of his eyes a nearly tangible thing moving down her, but somehow, she felt less discomfited by it that night.You’ve already had an opportunity to acclimate to him, plus it’s been ages since you’ve had wine.
“Still,” he persisted, “I do wonder why you waited so long. Unless, of course, you have several seasons already behind you?”
The smile that had been hovering at the corner of her lips hardened as the wine glasses were topped off by the servant who appeared at her elbow.Don’t forget yourself. He’s a rude prick.“This is my very first, my lord. Shocking, I know. My dear father was always incredibly indulgent. I suppose he ought to have listened to my mother and ended my education prematurely to present me to the town sooner.”It’s up to you to turn the topic, or else he’ll bleat on about your age all night. “But I suppose it’s no more unusual than yourself, Lord Stride, and your lack of a wife.”
His eyes glimmered as he raised his wineglass. “I find it thoroughly impossible to choose when there is such a bevy of beautiful and charming young ladies every season. Much as you resemble one of those luscious late-blooming flowers, Miss Eastwick,” he purred, his voice clinging to each voluptuousL, “I prefer to think of myself as a flitting butterfly, visiting the petals of each beauty in the field.”
“Moving from bloom to bloom, my lord?”
“Visiting each to pay homage to their beauty,” he agreed, lifting his wineglass to his lips, hesitating with a devilish smirk. “One can hardly hold it against a butterfly for dipping his tongue in for a taste of that sweet nectar.”
Heat moved up her neck, capturing her ears and cheeks.He’s testing you. He is a wicked profligate, but you can play this game.She laughed, a coy trill, watching closely as his fingers moved slowly against the stem of the crystal glass. “What else would the flowers have to discuss, if not the crude attentions of butterflies?” She picked up her own glass, swirling it, watching the garnet liquid circle before continuing. “One does wonder, though, if the purity of butterflies is questioned in the same manner the flowers are judged. After all, a careless butterfly can ruin a delicate bloom as he goes from bud to bud, but who holds him accountable for overused . . . wings?”
His head cocked, the corner of his mouth twitching. He managed to hold his smile in check, but she could see it there in his eyes, and knowledge thatshehad been the one to make those sapphires glimmer was a giddy triumph. She’d never before spoken to a man in such a way, but the theater had been educational in more than just stagecraft.
“On the contrary, my dear, the butterfly merely improves his technique from field to field. All for the betterment of the flower, of course. And those who would judge the flowers so harshly merely want a docile bloom who won’t question their lack of mastery over their own” — his hand hung in the air, and she held her breath, wondering if he would be brazen enough to gesture to his lap — “wingmanship.”
Do not laugh. Don’t give in to his wretched charms. “I hardly see how that is for the betterment of the flowers.”
“Oh, but of course it is. A butterfly with skill can land softly upon his chosen flower, giving each luscious petal the attention she deserves.” His thumb moved against the crystal stem of his glass, stroking it in a way that made it feel like there were indeed butterflies, all converging in her chest, tickling as his fingers moved up and down. “He will glory in every inch of her, from stem to stamen, with his sweet words,” — his thumb stroked down the stem of the crystal, and Eleanor was certain she was able to feel the drag of it down her throat — “his touch,” — her nipple tightened as she watched the drag of movement from crystal stem to the curve of the base, the pad of his thumb hugging its voluptuousness. She wondered if he would be pleased with the shape of her breasts or if he would find them too inelegant, a constant fear as she struggled to contain them in dresses she could no longer afford to have cut to her measurements. “And with his tongue,” he finished at last, red tongue darting out to touch his lip, as if to prove the point of his mastery. She pressed her thighs together, suddenly feeling flush.
