Her tresses had come down, big reddish-brown braids had unraveled from her chignon. Her eyes were dark, like fiery polished agate with bits of jade swirled in a sea of coffee-brown.
“Lord Ashbrook, I asked which, the kiss or the punch?”
“The . . . I know you only made a show of things for Willingham. Right, Mrs. St. Maur?”
She didn’t say anything, just glanced at him as she often did like he’d done something wrong.
Had he?
Maybe he should say he wanted her back in his arms to savor her mouth as much as her chocolate breath. If he were crazed, he’d tell her he craved the feel of her clanging heart against him and that he’d dream of it, of her tonight and every night until his blood cooled.
Not a word of this uttered from his lips. He merely stared.
“At least you didn’t apologize, sir. I think it would be very hypocritical to enjoy a kiss, then kill its memory by saying you didn’t mean any of it.”
“Technically, I returned your kiss.”
She glared at him and ducked her fists under her shawl.
“Never mind. My fault, ma’am.”
“Lord Ashbrook, I grabbed you to drive Mr. Willingham away, hopefully for good.”
“You make a very sound argument, Mrs. St. Maur. I think it’s best we never mention it.”
He started to the door.
She gave chase, then reached forward as if to straighten his cravat, but she slapped him.
It didn’t hurt as badly as the one at the Lincoln’s Inn. She hadn’t even put any power to it.
“Ma’am, you’re losing your touch.”
“That was for you, to pretend to be outraged by my scandalous behavior. I put myself on you, but you’re too much of a gentleman to complain.”
“So you slapped me to pretend I’m slapping you?” He squinted at her wondering if both of them had lost their way. “Well, your touch was light. You’re too generous to yourself. Good day, madame.”
“Wait, why did you finally come?”
“Folly, I assure you. I wanted to talk of the past with someone who’d understand, but between your violence and need to kiss me, I’m not sure it’s wise.”
“You wouldn’t be abused if you weren’t so pompous or so noble. I have amnesia. I don’t need to be protected. I chose to be kissed. I chose you.”
“That, ma’am, is the most frightening thing anyone has ever said to me. Good day.”
Out the room, he fled before those passion-stained eyes saw into his soul and saw all the lies he told himself about not wanting her.
Safe on the other side of the door, he leaned against it and straightened his mangled cravat.
“You still there, Ashbrook?” Mrs. St. Maur’s voice, low and sultry, seeped through the door and touched him, vibrating along his wavering spine.
“Ashbrook, I hear you breathing.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m here, but not for long. My cravat needs to be fixed before I’m seen in the world. Can’t let anyone know that I’ve been in a brawl or compromised.”
“I don’t mean to confuse you. I do thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome. Any time . . .” What was he saying?”
