The bell above the door tinkled again, and she hurriedly faced the shelf, tilting her bonnet brim to hide her face. For a moment all was silent, then slow, measured footsteps sounded, heading right for her. Joan pressed her lips together and sidled a few steps to the side, keeping her eyes glued to the shelves without registering any titles in front of her. It was a man’s tread, which meant she should be well nigh invisible to him, unless by some hideous mischance he was a friend of her parents. Somehow her mother was acquainted with every prying busybody in London, and word of Joan’s illicit visit here would wend its way back to Lady Bennet’s ears sooner or later.
The steps came nearer, pausing at the end of the aisle where she stood. Hastily she plucked a book at random from the shelf and opened it, at the same time she casually turned her back to him. Even though she told herself she had every right to visit a bookshop, her heart thudded hard and fast against her ribs. Visiting Hatchard’s would not alarm her mother overmuch; visitingthisbookshop, on the other hand, let alone in search of the contraband she wanted, would see her locked in her room for a month. She made herself breathe evenly, listening with every fiber of her being for those footsteps to turn and walk away.
Instead they came closer, one loud echoing step at a time. Joan turned a page in the book she held, as nonchalantly as possible. Where was that shopkeeper? She would be wildly irked at him if he turned out not to have50 Ways to Sinafter all.
“If you give back the paper Bennet signed, I won’t tell anyone I saw you reading prurient poetry in here,” murmured a terribly familiar voice.
Joan froze. Her heart jolted into her throat for one terrified moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, turning another page. This time she forced her eyes to read a few lines; it was not, thank the Lord and all his saints in heaven, prurient poetry. “And it’s rude to interrupt someone reading.”
“No?” A long arm reached past her, above her head, and drew a dusty, battered book from a shelf. “Isn’t it rude to accost someone in his bedchamber and blackmail him into sacrificing his freedom?”
“How dare you accuse a lady of such unspeakable crimes.” She turned another page. “It would be quite slanderous of you to say such things.”
Lord Burke leaned one shoulder against the bookcase in front of her and flipped open his book. “I saw it with my own eyes, not half an hour ago.”
“Indeed?” She batted her eyes at him. “When you tell the tale, be sure to mention your own shocking state of undress. My brother will demand satisfaction before the end of the day.”
He gave her a slow, simmering smile. As Joan had feared, the dratted man cleaned up very well. His bright green eyes glinted with deviltry, and when he smiled like this, a dimple appeared in his cheek. She’d forgotten the dimple. “He already demanded satisfaction. Why do you think I’m here? Hand over the paper and we’ll go our separate ways with no one the wiser.”
“Lord Burke, my actions are none of your concern. My brother is a grown man, in body if not in mind, and I daresay if he needs a keeper, you are the last man in England fit for the post. He signed the paper of his own free will.” She gave him a smile of her own, rather smug and superior.
“And you shall hand it right back to me, of your own free will.” He continued smiling at her in that wicked way that hinted of languid seduction. She had dreamed of a man looking at her this way, as if he meant to pursue her to the ends of the earth, only she hadn’t thought it would be over a silly piece of paper.
She snapped her book closed and replaced it on the shelf. “I don’t think I’d give you anything of mine, of my own free will.”
He raised one eyebrow. “No?”
“Never.”
“Never?”
She tipped back her head and widened her smile. “Never.”
He leaned forward, lowering his face until they were mere inches apart. “I could change your mind,” he whispered.
Joan heaved a sigh, even though her pulse jumped at the way he was looming over her, almost as if he meant to kiss her senseless. One part of her was strongly tempted to goad him into doing it. Shouldn’t every girl be kissed senseless by a dangerous man, just once in her life? But on the other hand, it was often better not to know what one was missing, so as not to feed sinful longings. Why hadn’t Tristan Burke’s dissipated lifestyle ravaged his looks? This would be much easier if he were fat or pockmarked.
“Never,” she repeated, telling herself it was true. Even if he did kiss her—which she doubted he could bring himself to do, no matter what he’d promised Douglas—it wouldn’t change her mind, because she would know it was only to win back that paper. If Joan were to let herself fall into a swoon over a kiss, it would be a proper kiss, given in passion and meant to seduce, not to trick.
For a moment he didn’t reply. His gaze narrowed and roved over her face. “You’re still too impertinent for your own good.”
“Why, thank you!” She batted her eyelashes at him. “I have achieved my life’s ambition.”
“And you’re too much trouble to be let loose on the poor, unsuspecting men of London.”
Her own eyes narrowed. He trod on shaky ground now. “You seem to be the only one troubled. Even Douglas will get over his fit. The paper means nothing, you know; my mother will have him at that ball one way or another, and he knows it.”
“Then give it back.”
“No.”
“I could take it from you.” Again his eyes drifted down, his long eyelashes dark against his cheeks. His gaze seemed to sweep over her figure like a cool breeze, and she fought off a shiver. “No,” he murmured. “I’d much rather you give it to me.”
“Not as long as you live, Lord Burke.” Her dratted voice broke on his name, so it came out breathy and soft. “Besides,” she quickly added to cover it, “the ball is tomorrow night. If it means so much to you, I shall send it to you the day after next, done up with a bright pink bow.”
His mouth curved again. “I imagine you have quite a lot of pink ribbon. Pink isn’t your color at all, though.”
“That is none of your concern,” she said coolly.
