He dipped his head and took another pull of air into his lungs. He was smelling her. And why wasn’t she stopping him? The question flitted across her mind, but before she could address him, his fingers lifted to brush a strand of hair away from the nape of her neck.
“Where did you get this mark?”
She blinked up at him as he lowered his head; so close his lips were near to touching hers. His warm breath fanned across her cheek. Tingles swirled low in her belly. Abruptly, she shoved at his chest and ducked under his arm, putting a respectable distance between them.
“What mark?” She glanced down and brushed out the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt.
“The one on your neck, just below your ear,” he said.
She ran her finger across the mark and shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant. “It’s nothing. A bug bite.”
It was a lie, of course. In the heat of the moment, the stranger had bitten her there, sinking his teeth in, creating the most thrilling sensation of pleasure mixed with just a nip of pain.
He tilted his head and she suddenly felt nervous. He looked at her intently—far too intently for her liking. “Those are teeth marks.”
Her gaze darted to his face. Slowly it dawned on her. Oh no. It couldn’t be. Could it? She didn’t want to believe it, but his peculiar behavior was too blatant to ignore. Anxiety spread through her at the thought of his hands stroking her, touching in her in the most intimate places…
“Thank you for your concern, but I think I’d know the difference between teeth marks and a bug bite.”
Looking deeply into her eyes, glancing from one to the other, he frowned. “No twitching, then?”
What was he implying?
“Not a whit.” She smiled tightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
He stepped directly into her path, a wall of pure masculine determination. “One more thing. Where were you last night, around midnight or thereabouts?”
Oh, dear God, it was him. Why else would he ask such a question?
“Why?” she asked quickly.
“Answer me.”
Sudden dread coiled in the pit of her stomach. If it was him, would he tell James? Surely he would. They shared everything. And James would demand she and Ashton marry immediately, as was proper.
Marry a man like Ashton—self-assured, arrogant, seducer of women? No, surely not. Ashton was handsome to be sure, but she wanted—needed—a safe, quiet husband who wouldn’t take half a dozen mistresses to his bed. Her father had been a notorious philanderer, taking a new mistress every fortnight, and Daphne had watched as her mother sank deeper and deeper into despair. Daphne swore she would never be that woman, pining for a man who could never truly love just one woman.
Edward was different. He was kind, unassuming, dependable…the perfect match for her.
“Ashton,” she said in a crisp, direct tone. “Perhaps I should make myself clear. I shall be very soon engaged.” It might be too soon to announce such news, especially since Edward hadn’t yet offered for her hand, but she was grasping for excuses. “Whatever you believe may have happened last night, most certainly did not. Now if you’ll move aside…”
He dipped his head and looked up at her through those long, black lashes. “And what do you believe I believe happened last night?”
What was this sudden feeling of breathlessness, as though all the air had escaped her lungs? And why, why couldn’t she stop imagining his hands on her breasts, thumbs gently stroking her nipples as he leaned down and…
“Good morning, Miss Hayward.”
Daphne jerked her head up to see Edward approach. Thank heaven. As usual, he was modestly dressed in a dark-green jacket and tan breeches, his blond hair arranged into a fashionably chaotic state. The effect was meant to create a certain roguish appeal, she gathered, but on him it just managed to look boyish and innocent.
She flashed him a smile. “Lord Wallingford, how delightful.” Her gloved hand slipped easily into the crook of his arm. “We were just discussing Lord Byron. Lord Claymore favors his work. He speaks of little else.”
“Ah yes.” Ashton smiled, slipping easily into her lie. “She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies; / And all that’s best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes…” He looked directly at Daphne as he said the last, as if communicating some secret message. Her heart leapt in response. He was calling her beautiful in his own absurd, acutely unsettling way, and despite herself, she found it oddly endearing. “I find his poetry often imitates life.”
“How fascinating,” Edward said, not appearing the least bit fascinated.