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A fire sparked within her. She had never been a gracious loser.
He took another step closer, but her hand shot forth, planting between them with a halting movement. “That is close enough, sir.”
“Or...” he prompted.
She took a subtle step back, but the heel of her slipper came in contact with the solid side of the fountain.
“Or I risk falling into the fountain and being soaked through for the rest of the ball.”
He eyed her up and down, then raised a shoulder. “It could only be an improvement.”
Marie knew he lied. She’d seen the look of approval in his eyes each time he stared at her—indeed, she’d seen it for the better part of the evening. But his very nerve at even stating such a thing needed to be checked.
He tried once more to draw closer, so she pressed her hand firmly against his waistcoat, intent on pushing him away to reveal just how much leeway she was going to allow him this evening.
However, with his firm footing and her severe underestimation of how solid his chest was, Marie ended up pushing herself back instead, and she lost balance. Her lower legs pressed up against the fountain wall and her hands spun out at the side of her like the wheels of a cart as she attempted to catch her balance.
She yelped, ready to plunge into the cold water behind her when Charles’s arms wrapped around her and pulled her back to solid footing, slamming her body against his firm frame.
She breathed heavily, attempting to gain her bearings.
“You must be more careful,” Charles growled.
She pulled back. He had some nerve to be upset with her for such an accident. “You are impossible, Charles.”
“As are you, Miss Oakley.”
“Are you so deluded that you’ve forgotten what has occurred this morning? I am no longer Miss Oakley.”
He leaned down closer so they were face-to-face. “We’ll see.”
The threat in his eyes, the hidden meaning behind his words, confused her for one moment before riling up another wave of utter infuriation.
He dared threaten her? To what, get a divorce? An annulment? Whatever it was, indignation, annoyance, and anger fused within her. He expected her to buckle, to relent, to cave.
Well, Childish Charlie had met his match in Immovable Marie.
Her hands found the lapels of his jacket, and with swift movements, she pulled him toward her. Standing on the tips of her toes, she pressed her lips to his, and all of a sudden, she was kissing Charles Shepherd.
Her impossible husband.
Chapter Ten
Charles froze. What on earth was happening right now? Was this devil woman—this vexing, confusing, gorgeous wife of his truly kissing him?
Marie’s lips pressed more firmly against his as if hearing his confusion, and her small fists clenched his lapels ever tighter as she tried to pull him closer.
He did not budge. In fact, his instinct was to immediately set her aside. He was not in the habit of kissing women he barely knew—especially women who threw themselves upon him. But when Tristan’s voice echoed in his mind, he paused.
“You are being kissed by a beautiful woman—who instigated the affection, by the way—and you’re not kissing her back? Are you stupid?”
Tristan—or Imagined Tristan—had a point. Charles had every right to kiss his wife back. And if Marie thought she’d get the better of this conversation by ending it with a kiss started by her, she was sorely mistaken.
“Are you going to kiss her back or not?”
Fine, Tristan. Fine.
It took but half a moment for Charles to respond. In one movement, he swooped his right arm around her, eliciting a gasp from her that broke their kiss for a moment. He pressed his hand to the small of her back, pulling her flat against his body. With his free hand, he slid his fingers just above the nape of her neck, guiding her lips back to his.
