“Fast women,” she scoffed, “and scapegraces like my brother.”
“Your brother is quite the scapegrace,” he agreed.
“My mother blames you for all his wild behavior.”
His mouth flattened. “How gratifying,” he said curtly. “Quite a feather in my cap, corrupting the scion of such an estimable family.”
Miss Bennet regarded him thoughtfully, not put off at all. “Oh, I know Douglas would be dreadful even without your corrupting influence. Still, I think even he has better manners than to call a woman ugly to her face.”
“I never called you ugly,” he said at once. “I insulted your dress, not your face.”
She made a noise suspiciously like a snort. “It was hard to tell the difference.”
“There is a vast difference.” His gaze slid over her complexion, as fresh as new cream. Her lips were as pink and ripe as they’d been at the Malcolm ball, and he tried not to think about how they had tasted. Her eyes weren’t snapping sparks at him now, but he feared the open, honest look in them even more. “I would never insult your face,” he said, only half aloud. “I never could. You’d hidden everything lovely about yourself behind ridiculous hairstyles and unflattering dresses, and that was what I insulted. Not you at all.”
Her lips parted and her eyes grew round. “Thank you,” she said softly. “That was nearly a compliment.”
It had been one. He didn’t dare say anything else; his thoughts were straying down dangerous paths as it was. The frightening truth was that Joan Bennet grew more and more attractive every time he saw her. She smelled delicious. She made him laugh. She provoked him and teased him and dominated his thoughts until he would swear she was a sorceress, bent on driving him mad. Her mouth still taunted him to kiss her again. And now that she’d got a decent dress that showed off her bosom and her waist and made him imagine her long legs wrapped around his hips...
He cleared his throat. “Do you want to learn to throw a punch or not?”
She heaved a great sigh. “I don’t think I need to.”
Sighing made her bosom plump up. He curled his hands into loose fists and raised them to fighting position. “You should know how. Hands like this.” She rolled her eyes but raised her hands to mirror his. “Now, hit me.”
“What?” she exclaimed, lowering her hands. “No!”
“You’ve already done it once. Hit me again, like this.” At slow speed he extended his right hand in a jab.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Tristan laughed. “You won’t.”
“I did before,” she reminded him with a whiff of pride.
“Because you caught me off guard. You won’t hurt me. Imagine it’s Douglas here in my place.”
Some of the fire came back into her expression. “Very well.” She punched him in the arm.
“Not there, in my face,” he said in exasperation. “You’ll never dissuade an impertinent man that way.” She scowled and tried again. Tristan turned his head away and received only a glancing blow on the jaw. “Better, but you must strike faster, to surprise him.”
“I can’t surprise you when you’re telling me to punch you,” she said through her teeth.
He grinned. “But you want to punch me, don’t you? You think I deserve it, don’t you? You long to crack my jaw or break my nose—“ She threw another punch and he dodged, taking it on his shoulder. “Almost, almost!” he said, enjoying this. Her eyes positively glittered now, and her cheeks were flushed. He wondered if she found this as arousing as he did. “Try harder. Step into it.”
“I am!” She swung again, this time directly at his nose. Instinctively he caught her fist in his hand, then he caught the rest of her as the momentum of her punch carried her forward. For a moment neither moved. He could see her pulse beating at the base of her throat. Her rapid breath was the only sound in the room. Her eyes were more golden than ever, wide and round as she stared up at him. There was an odd roaring in his ears. All he had to do was lower his head and his mouth would meet her soft, rosy lips, already parted in expectation. All he had to do was let his hand slide around her waist and she would be in his arms, her glorious bosom against his chest. All he had to do...
With a jerk she stepped backward. “I think that counts as a hit.”
His hands fell to his sides. It did feel as though she’d landed a direct hit to some part of him. “Yes. This time.”
She wet her lips. “I don’t think there needs to be another time, Lord Burke.”
“If you wish,” he murmured. “Joan.”
She started at the sound of her name. “That’s very familiar!”
“You’ve already accused me of being uncouth and unmannered. You might as well leave off the pretense of decorum and call me by name, too.”
