“Worth every moment,” he murmured, taking her in from head to toe. “Jonquil suits you.”
The look he cast her must have been more frankly admiring than he’d realized, because the most charming blush he’d ever seen rushed into her cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Kit, Tilly. Not my lord. We agreed, remember?”
“Yes, of course. I, ah, I brought the list I promised you, Kit.”
“Ah, yes.” The list of his potential matches. But not one of the young ladies on her list would ever become his countess, because his countess was standing before him now in her fetching jonquil silk gown, wisps of dark hair brushing the bare skin of her neck. “May I see it?”
“Yes.” She grasped the fingertips of her left glove and began to draw it off.
Slowly. One finger at a time, the clinging white silk giving way inch by tantalizing inch, revealing the creamy, warm skin beneath. He cleared his throat. “What, ah…what are you doing?”
“I didn’t want anyone to ask me about it, so I hid the paper inside my glove.”
Dear God. He’d watched dozens of ladies strip their gowns from their backs while he lounged on a bed, but he’d never seen anything as erotic as Tilly Templeton sliding her gloves from her fingers.
They were gloves, for God’s sake.Gloves. But it didn’t matter. By the time she was done, his mouth had gone dry, and his hands were shaking.
“Here it is.” She held up her hand. A folded piece of paper was pressed into the center of her dainty pink palm. “It’s not a long list—only three names.”
“Am I so hard to matchmake, Tilly?” He took a step toward her, his voice low and teasing.
“No! No, of course not. I just thought we’d wait and see which of these ladies you preferred before we went any further.”
“Very well.” He tore his gaze away from the delicate wash of pink on her cheeks as it drifted down her throat, and held his hand out for the paper. “Lady Cressida Crawly,” he read aloud.
“Yes. I own she’s not precisely…” She bit her lip. “That is, she’s a trifle, er, whimsical.”
Whimsical? Certainly she was, if by whimsical one meant as silly as a giggling schoolgirl, and as empty-headed as a peahen. “Would we call her whimsical?”
She winced, dropping her eyes. “Perhaps notpreciselythat, but she does have lovely blue eyes.”
He touched his fingers to her chin and lifted her face to his. “I’ve seen much lovelier blue eyes than hers.”
For the first time since they’d met, Mathilda Templeton appeared to be struck speechless. Her throat worked, but she said nothing, only gazed up at him with wide blue eyes so vastly superior to Lady Cressida’s, it was like comparing a humble bluebird’s wing to an endless stretch of summer sky.
They gazed at each other, neither of them speaking, another fetching wash of color scalding her cheeks until at last he took pity on her, and glanced back down at the list. “Miss Fitzjohn?”
“Yes. She’s not as glamorous as Lady Cressida, but she’s clever, and kind.” Tilly swallowed. “She’d make you a sweet, affectionate wife.”
“And does that matter to you, Tilly? That my countess be sweet to me?”
She caught her breath as his fingers drifted lightly down her neck. “No proper matchmaker would doom a gentleman to a cold marriage, my lord.”
“That’s good of you, Tilly.” He pressed a gentle finger into the hollow of her throat, a bolt of heat surging in his belly when her pulse leapt against his fingertip. “I’d much prefer an ardent, warm-hearted wife, if one can be had.”
“I…of course.” She cleared her throat. “Lady Anne Wilmott.”
Ladywho? “I beg your pardon?”
“Lady Anne Wilmott, my lord.” She nodded at the paper in his hand. “The last name on the list.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Lady Anne is…” But he couldn’t think of a single word to describe Lady Anne—not while he was touching Tilly, her skin impossibly soft and warm under his fingers.
He was bound to wed her, yes—the circumstances demanded it—but somehow, from the moment he’d pried open eyes burning with absinthe to the moment she’d appeared on the balcony tonight, glowing like the sunrise in her bright silk, she was the only lady he could think about, the only lady he could see.
“Lady Anne is your best match, my lord. You should dance with her first, then Miss Fitzjohn, and if neither of them suits, Lady Cressida.”
