“Said many a young woman who found herself ruined.”
Dara did not like being contradicted, especially with common sense. She made a dismissive sound. “Am I in danger from you, sir? Are you going to kiss me?”
There was that wordkissagain.
And suddenly, it seemed like something he might wish to do. Just for curiosity’s sake, he told himself—except, that wasn’t true. Dara fascinated him. She had from the moment she’d confronted him in the Supper Room. She was bold, unabashedly loyal, and vibrantly engaged in life with her schemes and her dreams. She was the Lanscarr he looked forward to seeing when he called.
The one he’d enjoy in his bed.
Dara’s lips parted as if she could read his thoughts. Her tongue wet her lower lip. A softness came to her features, and what had been a flippant comment now took on real meaning. And he knew what she was thinking because here in the shadows and moonlight under the willow, he was thinking the same thing. She would let him kiss her.
He wanted that kiss, and it would ruin everything between them. The bickering masking attraction; the way he lured her into crossing her imaginary boundaries; their contests to outwit each other. All of those actions made it easy for Dara and Michael to pretend they weren’t drawn to each other. He saw that now.
He also believed that infatuation was not enough to toss aside dreams. She deserved her duke. Besides, she wasn’t the sort of woman a man toyed with. She was Quality.
He turned away. “We should go inside.” He moved toward the curtain of willow branches. Dara didn’t follow.
He glanced back. She appeared rooted to the ground, her gloved hands by her sides. “She likes you,” she repeated softly.
At first, he thought she referred to herself. Then, he understood—she meant Elise.
Michael released his breath slowly. Dara was so completely loyal. Could it be that he’d read her wrong? She might not have considered kissing him at all and he’d imagined his own desire into her slightest gesture, conjuring feelings that weren’t there. The idea rattled him. He was the adroit politician. She was a green lass from Wicklow, of all places.
So perhaps he sounded harsher than he should when he answered, “You would be wiser to think of your own self. Of what you want.”
She stiffened as if offended by his tone, and then she said, “I am.” She moved forward, head high, her customary swagger back. Miss Dara, general of the Lanscarrs. “Shall we return?”
“Of course,” he answered, irrationally annoyed. But then, she could do that to him. One moment he could find her charming, and in thenext, her pride and sharp tongue made him want to—kiss her.
God, he was a damn fool.
He reached to pull back the willows when he heard the sound of women’s voices, their accent the music of Ireland.
“Are you certain she came down this way?”
“That is what the gentleman on the portico told me. He saw Miss Dara go down the darkened path.”
Dara grabbed his arm. “It is the Byrne sisters.” She motioned for him to lower the willow branches. They both strained to listen.
“Who do you think she was going to meet?”
Beside him, Dara said, “That is Helen Byrne speaking.”
“Girls, if we are going to catch those sneaky Lanscarrs being who they are, we must keep our voices down.”
“That is Lady Byrne.” She pulled him back into the tree’s sheltering shadows. His arm went around her waist. It was a natural movement as they huddled together and listened to the Byrnes perform their little reconnaissance.
“Are you sure she came out here?” one of the daughters complained.
“Sophie, of course I am. I saw Mr. Brogan leave. He was acting very clandestine—”
Michael made a mental note to march outdoors in the future.
“—and then Dara followed him.”
“Well, they don’t look as if they are here now,” Sophie said.
“No, I think not,” Lady Byrne agreed. “Let us return to the house before someone wonders whatweare doing out here.”
