She was still smiling at him. Even though Tristan knew it was misleading—even ominous—that smile was distracting. There was something very lively and mischievous about it, tempting the wildness inside him that craved adventure and danger. He had to blink a few times to keep from being dazzled by it. “He did encourage it, if dancing pleased you.”
“I hope it shall. Anything else?”
He thought a moment. “Nothing specific. It was more a general urge to see that you enjoyed yourself, and not a specific list of tasks.”
She pressed her lips together in a dangerous smile. “But I could only enjoy a dance with someone of good intentions.”
“Of course.” He absolutely intended to avoid kissing her. That was positively noble, for him.
“Then you seek only our mutual pleasure, as my aunt suggested?” Miss Bennet looked at him through her eyelashes.
Tristan had to remind himself they were talking about dancing. What the devil was wrong with him? He should give her the satisfaction of turning him down flat, he really should—for both their sakes. “What else would I seek?”
“Hm.” She cast her eyes upward and tapped one finger at the side of her mouth. His gaze was drawn to it like a magnet to true north. How had he never noticed before that her mouth was made to be kissed? And made to kiss back. For one sharp moment he felt again her lips against his: hesitant, innocent, but eager and willing. The thought of teaching her how to kiss properly was tantalizing; first, it would mean kissing her again, something he’d spent far too much time thinking about today alone. And second, it would put an end to whatever vengeance she was plotting for his earlier behavior. In fact, it might even be in his own best interest to do so. He was quite certain he could kiss her thoroughly enough to distract her from whatever schemes were whirling behind her bright eyes.
“Retribution?” she suggested.
Sometimes it seemed she could read his mind, an alarming thought. “Have you committed a crime? Other than striking me in the face, that is.”
A hint of color bloomed in her cheeks. “That was retribution for you imprisoning me against my will.”
“It was a good blow,” he told her. “Well landed, but only because you surprised me.”
“You mustn’t think all ladies will fall flat on their backs the moment you show them the least bit of attention,” she said tartly.
He made a face even as his blood stirred at the thought. “What man would want that? The thrill is in catching a woman and persuading her that she wants to ... well.” He grinned at her narrow-eyed glare. “That reminds me of something I’ve longed to teach you. Stand up and learn how to throw a proper punch.”
She gaped at him. “Throw a proper punch! I’ve only ever needed to punch you.”
“If you’ve ordered any more gowns like that one, you might need to know. Stand up,” he said again.
Slowly she put her hand in his outstretched one and let him help her up. “You like my gown?”
The question made him look down. Standing as close as she was, his gaze landed right on her bosom. He had already been struggling to ignore the view of her voluptuous flesh, but now it was impossible. Good Lord, her bosom was spectacular, even in this relatively modest day dress. Without any ribbons and lace blinding him, he was bewitched by the smooth creaminess of her skin. Had she really looked like this before, underneath all those pink ruffles? His fascinated gaze dropped lower; the dress hugged her waist, indicating how long her legs were. He liked tall women. He liked buxom women. And a tall, buxom woman with radiant skin ... if she’d been wearing this dress at the Malcolm ball, he didn’t know what would have happened behind the potted palms.
“You think this dress is more flattering?” she asked again, interrupting his study. Tristan jerked his gaze back up to her face, unsettled. It was one thing to recognize a splendid bosom, and another thing to be caught staring like an uncouth boy.
“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s quite the loveliest dress I’ve ever seen you wear.”
She smiled in pleased surprise. “No more umbrella?”
His jaw tightened for a moment in chagrin. What had possessed him to say such a thing, when he’d guessed from the first time he saw her that she might be a siren? “Not a bit. I have already confessed I was wrong to say such a thing. It was unpardonably rude.”
Her merriment faded. “Then why did you?” Her tone was curious, but the question itself carried a note of reproach that pricked his conscience. He knew better than to insult a lady; the fact that there was something about Joan Bennet that tormented and provoked him beyond all reason was no excuse.
“Because I am a rude, unmannered lout,” he said, trying to disguise an honest reply behind a flippant air.
She pursed her lips. “That’s pissing more than you drank.”
Tristan’s eyebrows shot up in delight. “Such language from a lady!”
“I’m sure you’ve heard far worse,” she retorted. “But ... please don’t tell my aunt I said it. It slipped out before I could stop myself.”
“What a clanker! You enjoyed saying it. Nevertheless,” he added as she glared at him, “your secret is safe with me. I like a woman with dash.”
“Is that why you act like a rude, unmannered lout—to turn away anyone who hasn’t got dash?”
“No. Women with dash are simply drawn to my rude behavior, and as I like their sort better than any other, I have no motive to change.”
