“No?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She paused, looking up at the suddenly inflexible line of his mouth. She’d insulted him, somehow, as though there was some tangible difference between the honor of a lady and the honor of any other woman. “I thought men only ever wanted one thing. At least, that’s what my mother told me.”
His expression relaxed a little and he stretched out on the grass. “I confess myself to be intrigued by your mother,” he said. “What sort of things has she been telling you?”
They were too numerous to name, and none were appropriate for polite conversation. But thiswasn’tpolite conversation. George wasn’t especially polite, and they were in the middle of nowhere, her word against his. Nothing she did heremattered.
And her tongue was loose from the wine and the gentle pressure of the sunlight, and eventually, she lay on her side beside him, facing him. He rolled over to face her in return. “She told me what I should expect when I lie with a man,” she said. “And, might I add, in the most horrific detail.”
“Horrific?” A smile curved one side of his mouth. “Why was it horrific?”
She shuddered. “Because by the sounds of it, I will be impaled and stabbed and must ensure that the man in question believes I am having a good time, even if I am not at all.”
He reached out and touched one of her curls, the gesture almost hesitant, as though he didn’t want to but had to do so anyway. Her stomach curled at the look in his eyes—of heat and hunger and something that made her want to look away. Except she couldn’t look away.
“Do you really think such an act is so unpleasant?” he murmured.
“Why?” she asked archly, any good sense she once possessed left entirely behind. “Are you chagrined to think the ladies you’ve been with have not enjoyed themselves?”
“I am pleased to report the ladies I’vebeen with, as you say, have not suffered from beingstabbedorimpaled, and have most definitely enjoyed themselves.” His finger paused on her curls, and she wondered why she should be suddenly so aware of his proximity, and the way the corner of his palm grazed her cheek. “Though it’s not ladylike to talk about such things, you know.”
“I have not been much taught about what is ladylike,” she said bitterly and took the wine from his loose grasp. This next drink was refreshing, and she closed her eyes as she swallowed. When she opened them again, he was looking at her with a dark, dangerous look on his face.
Her heart, clearly operating entirely separately from her brain, fluttered in her chest.
“You should not be here,” he said, his voice low. “And not with me.”
“Why?” Her movements were oddly clumsy, Sybil leaned in. He had such nice eyes at this range—blue, of course, but with flecks of gold. It was sunlight on the sea, and so unearthly beautiful she caught her breath. “Are you afraid you’re going to seduce me?”
He caught her shoulders to prevent her from rolling any closer and cursed under his breath. “I suppose your experience with drinking is as much a lie as your false modesty?”
“False modesty?” She hiccupped. “What’s false about my modesty?”
“Because,” he said, his breath dancing over her lips in the most delightful way, “you are not speaking like a modest young lady.”
“Oh, isthatall?” She laughed when his eyes narrowed. “Don’t look at me as though I’m some errant sister.”
“Luckily, I don’t have a sister,” he said grimly. “And even if I did, I would not look at her the way I look at you.”
“How do you look at me?”
His grip on her arms tightened for a second, before he moved back, running a hand through his hair. “Lord, give me strength,” he muttered.
When he was frustrated with her, he didn’t have the same wickedness he had earlier or the same smile that had stolen her breath so effectively. There was something tight about his mouth, and she wondered about that. She also wondered why he had come here, why he had entertained her and offered her wine and essentially dried her tears, if he was going to be so annoyed at her now.
So she shuffled closer, until she was within touching distance, and reached out a hand, touching his mouth. It softened under her caress, but his eyes were wide and wary.
And hungry. There was the same dark want that had been there before, and it made her toes curl in anticipation. For what, she wasn’t sure, but she wanted it, too.
Perhaps this was what her mother had spoken of when she had said to embrace her sexuality. Not to flaunt her body as though it was a stage and the world her audience, but to offer some part of herself to a man who captivated her the same way this man captivated her, with his sky-blue eyes and forbidding eyebrows and mouth that parted under her exploring fingers.
“Sybil,” he said, abandoning her title. She liked the way her name sounded on his tongue.
“Why are you so angry at me?” she asked, hearing the way her words didn’t quite seem to exit her mouth quite right. She frowned.
He took hold of her wrist and eased her hand away from his mouth. “I’m not angry at you.”
