“You haven’t guessed my name yet,” she prompted.
“I know you are Lady Nevill,” he said. “But I don’t know the most important thing of all.”
“And that is?”
“Your proper name, of course.” He picked up her hand. “One learns much from a woman’s intimate name. I hope you aren’t a Mary…so puritanical.”
She giggled at that, and the sensual sound of it raced down his legs. “I’m not Mary.”
He traced a small pattern on her wrist. “There are many English names that evoke a kind of sturdy Englishhood,” he said. “I find it hard to put you together with a name like Lucy or Margaret.”
“Surely I don’t look like a sturdy Englishwoman!”
He took up her invitation and surveyed her from head to foot. Her eyes had a wicked slant, tipped up at the edges and emphasized by the kohl. Her lips were lushly red, crimson almost. Her bodice was stiffly laced and low; her breasts were much larger than Poppy’s and plumped above their restraint, as if begging for a man’s hand.
“No,” he said slowly, feeling desire as a palpable ache. “No, you don’t look sturdy to me.”
“I’ll give you a hint,” she said. “It begins with an L.”
“Lily,” he said, “like a flower.”
“Too wholesome.” Her eyes danced again.
“Lettice.”
She put up her nose. “I am not a garden vegetable.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had a great-aunt named Lettice and I’ve always liked it. Laetitia?” She shook her head. “Lorelei?” A nice name, she declared, but not hers. “Liliane?”
Finally, she gave in and told him. “Louise.”
“Louise…” He rolled the word on his tongue. “Very nice.”
Her throaty giggle was reply enough.
Fletch laughed—they were both laughing—
When Poppy suddenly appeared with Gill and St. Albans beside her. “Hello,” she said.
She wasn’t smiling.