She did not need to ask. From the maid’s countenance, the whole castle had fallen into her ploy, which was to foster the relationship between her son and the beautiful Miss Collins.
If the kiss they had shared—dutifully brought to her knowledge by Amber—and the chemistry between them were anything to go by, she was well within her rights to tug the strings of fate.
What better way to help her son realize his feelings than throwing Talia into the arms of a potential paramour and having him come upon them?
“Aye, Miss Collins is alone with her suitor at the moment.”
A grin spread across her face, and she clapped her hands together. “Good, now fetch me son and let him ken about the situation.”
“Ye’re absolutely incorrigible!” Talia cried.
“What have I done?” His feigned cluelessness was always so charming.
His lips stretched out, baring sharp, pointy fangs. Talia inchedawayfor a closer look. That was how close he sat to her.
“Ye call on me so early in the morning?—”
He shifted closer, as if punishing her for putting distance between them. “I missed ye.”
“—in yer Sunday best?—”
“I am always dapper every day of the week.”
“—and ye refuse to behave.”
“What do ye mean?”
Her admonishments seemed to pull him even closer.
They shared a large sofa, long enough to sit four people of similar builds to her, with enough space between them forcomfort. Her guest, however, found it more proper to press his knee against her thigh. His arm hung loosely over the back as he assumed the pose of an unrefined rake.
She found him entertaining. He was the sort who flirted because he could, because his looks allowed him that courtesy. It made her curious to know whether he would actually act on the things he said or if they were barely superficial remarks to elicit her laughter. When he smiled, it was hard to believe he was morally corrupt.
Witnessing the less tamed version of what he had portrayed in front of Orlagh, she wondered what else he could be hiding. One thing she was sure of, anyway, was that if he would not be her husband, he would be a very entertaining friend.
“Ye shouldnae take advantage of me lack of a chaperone.”
She did nothing to show her disapproval except lean away, when she knew that if she had been stern, he would not have been almost on top of her. Maybe he was the kind of experienced rake that made her believe his feelings were perfectly her own. Maybe she was perfectly seduced, believing she still had the reins.
He cocked an eyebrow, playing into the charade. “How am I doing that?”
If she had chosen the divan, they would have fallen over. Her back was pressed tightly against the armrest, her lower body arched towards him invitingly. If they had sat on the divan, she would not be leaning away. There would be no upholstered backor arms abetting her. She would face him without pretensions to decency and invite him to ruin her.
Even if he was a rake, she had to believe he was a genteel one, as his hands were nowhere near her.
While he loomed over her, hanging onto the threads of propriety, she admired his beautiful face. Very few men looked like him.
Ewen was a man of ideal proportions, tall but not too tall. She would have to rise on her tiptoes to press her lips to his. His shoulders were broad—she could envision herself disappearing behind his frame—but not so broad that his waist appeared overly slender.
When he wasn’t flirting, he was inadvertently seducing her with a deck of cards, dexterous fingers, and alchemy. He carried a pack with him wherever he went, but if one were to ask him, he would go on a tangent on how he dedicated every second of his life to entertaining her so much so that he carried out tricks like a court jester for her amusement.
“Oh, quit it.” She pushed him off her and rose.
He fell against the upholstery with a grin that was so magnificent she imagined Apollo had happened upon her while foraging and decided to come to her as a suitor. If that were the case, she had better enjoy his company while it lasted.
“I wish to be near ye.” Without missing a beat, he followed.
The thing about Ewen was that if he experienced any emotion other than mirth, he managed to mask it well beneath a perfect porcelain face. He had crafted such a persona that it was nearly impossible to envision him overcome by emotion. Those slender eyebrows could not knit in anger. She absolutely could not imagine it. Bright, luminous eyes could not dull because of depression. The throes of desire, however, were not unimaginable.
