“Do you want to?” he asked irritably.
“No, I am perfectly comfortable,” she said.
He wished he could say the same. Thanks to the small, round bottom perched so confoundedcomfortablyupon his lap, his loins were experiencing the fiery torments of the damned. He was throbbingly aware that release was mere inches away. He had only to turn her toward him and lift her skirts and…
And she might as well have been in China, for all the chance there was of that happening, he thought bitterly. That was the trouble with ladies—one of the legion of troubles. You couldn’t just do the business when you wanted to. You had to court and persuade, and then you had to do it in a proper bed. In the dark.
“You may stay, then,” he said. “But don’t kiss me again. It’s…provoking. And don’t tell me about your sleeping apparel.”
“Very well,” she said, glancing idly about her, just as though she were sitting at a tea table. “Did you know that Shelley’s first wife drowned herself in the Serpentine?”
“Is my first wife considering the same?” he asked, eyeing her uneasily.
“Certainly not. Genevieve says that killing oneself on account of a man is inexcusably gauche. I was merely making conversation.”
He thought that, despite the torments, it was rather pleasant to have a soft, clean-smelling lady perched upon his knee, making idle conversation. He felt a smile tugging at his mouth. He quickly twisted it into a scowl. “Does that mean you’ve left off being cross for the moment?”
“Yes.” She glanced down at his useless left hand, which had slid onto the seat during their stormy embrace. “You really ought to wear a sling, Dain. So that it doesn’t bang into things. You could do it a serious injury, and never notice.”
“I’ve only banged it once or twice,” he said, frowning at it. “And I noticed, I assure you. I feel everything, just as though it worked. But it doesn’t. Won’t. Just lies there. Hangs there. Whatever.” He laughed. “Conscience bothering you?”
“Not in the least,” she said. “I thought of taking a horsewhip to you, but you wouldn’t have felt a thing, I daresay.”
He studied her slim arm. “That would want a good deal more muscle than you could hope for,” he said. “And you’d never be quick enough. I’d skip out of your way and laugh.”
She looked up. “You’d laugh even if I managed to strike. You’d laugh if your back were torn to shreds. Did you laugh after I shot you?”
“Had to,” he answered lightly. “Because I swooned. Ridiculous.”
It had been ridiculous, he realized now, as he searched the cool grey depths of her eyes. It had been absurd to be outraged with her. The scene in the Wallingdons’ garden hadn’t been her doing. He was beginning to suspect whose it had been. If the suspicion was correct, he had not only behaved abominably, but had been unforgivably stupid.
He’d deserved to be shot. And she’d done it well. Dramatically. He smiled, recollecting. “It was neatly done, Jess. I’ll give you that.”
“It was splendidly done,” she said. “Admit it: brilliantly planned and executed.”
He looked away, toward Nick and Harry, who were pretending to be sleepily at peace with the world. “It was very well done,” he said. “Now I think of it. The red and black garments. The Lady Macbeth voice.” He chuckled. “The way my courageous comrades bolted up in terror at the sight of you. Like a lot of ladies at a tea party invaded by a mouse.”
His amused gaze came back to her. “Maybe it was worth being shot, just to see that. Sellowby—Goodridge—in a panic over a little female in a temper fit.”
“I am notlittle,” she said sharply. “Just because you are a great gawk of a lummox, you needn’t make me out to be negligible. For your information, my lord Goliath, I happen to be taller than average.”
He patted her arm. “You needn’t worry, Jess. I’m still going to marry you, and I’ll manage to make do somehow. You are not to be anxious on that score. In fact, I’ve brought proof.”
He slid his hand into the deep carriage pocket. It took him a moment to find the package he’d hidden there, and the moment was enough to set his heart pounding with anxiety.
He’d spent three agitated hours selecting the gift. He’d rather be stretched upon a rack than return to Number Thirty-two, Ludgate Hill, and endure that hellish experience again. At last his fingers closed upon the tiny box.
Still, his heart didn’t stop pounding, even when he drew it out and clumsily pressed it into her hand. “You’d better open it yourself,” he said tightly. “It’s a deuced awkward business with one hand.”
Her grey glance darting from him to the package, she opened it.
There was a short silence. His insides knotted and his skin grew clammy with sweat.
Then, “Oh,” she said. “Oh, Dain.”
His helpless panic eased a fraction.
“We’re betrothed,” he said stiffly. “It’s a betrothal ring.”
