The Irresistible Miss Peppiwell(13)

Hell.

She trembled slightly, and his gaze sharpened. Because of him? Perhaps she was not so indifferent, after all.

Or were her trembles just residual from Lord Orwell’s pursuit of her? That possibility, and recalling the vicious sneer on the man’s face, unsettled him. “Do you need protection from Lord Orwell?”

Shock flared in her eyes, which she quickly doused. “Protection?”

“Yes.” They’d already been through this at Lady Calvert’s ball. She knew the power he wielded.

She hesitated for a long moment, then said, “If I needed such assistance…at what price would it be offered?”

“There is none,” Anthony assured her.

She regarded him with thinly veiled disbelief. “Your offer is generous, my lord, but unnecessary.” Her lips curved in a cool smile that belied her flattering words. “Your concern for my person is deeply appreciated. You have only just met me, yet your kind, gentlemanly nature—”

Her teeth snapped together as his amused laugh cut her off. He sobered, delighted by the expressions that chased across her face. Affront, annoyance, and then chilly smoothness once more. He would banish the ice maiden yet.

“Orwell is reputed to be a sneaky bastard,” he said. “I would willingly offer protection to anyone, should they become entangled with him. My offer stands indefinitely, Miss Peppiwell.”

“And you insist you are making your offer as a gentleman, with nothing asked of me?” Her disdainful gaze said she expected he did it for anything but gentlemanly consideration.

“I require nothing in return, Miss Peppiwell,” he assured her. He did not need to understand what drove Orwell. The man’s rage when she’d slipped away from him was enough to have warnings clanging in Anthony’s head. “If my own sister were involved in some folly, I’d hope someone would be kind enough to render her assistance without stipulations,” he said, hoping she would unbend and confide, nonetheless.

Miss Peppiwell stared at him incredulously, in clear disbelief. He wondered what had caused such a young woman to become so cynical.

“I thank you again for your generous offer, but I require no such assistance. I bid you good evening, my lord.”

She started to leave and he grasped her arm. Unable to resist the lure of her, he leaned in, dipped his head, and skimmed his lips over hers. He felt, surely, a statue had more animation. He deepened the kiss, searching for a response. She remained cold, her golden eyes strangely luminous in the dark. He lifted his head and gazed into her upturned face.

He found it uncommon that she had not reacted at all. She neither returned his kiss, nor slapped him in feminine outrage. And yet, there was that simmering heat he sensed, just below the surface of her chilly facade. A part of him was darkly curious as to how far he could push before she reacted. Before it crumbled and she threw herself into his arms.

Or perhaps he was merely fantasizing.

“I wonder what makes you tick, Miss Peppiwell,” he mused.

A quicksilver of something flared in her gaze—a fraction of widening, a quiver of interest—then she went as cold as a wintery night. And he knew then, with certainty. It was all for show, a carefully contrived shield. To protect her from what?

“Not you, my lord,” she retorted. “Now please remove your hands from my person.” She wrenched away from him—and twisted her ankle in her haste. She cried out in pain.

“Be still.” The sharp lash of his voice made her pause.

A gasp escaped her as he lifted and carried her deeper into the shadows, to the garden bench. He set her down gently and dropped to one knee, raising her foot in his hand.

“What are you doing?” she demanded in a shaky voice.

“I am determining if you sprained your ankle with your foolish impulse to flee.”

“My impulse was not foolish,” she snapped. “You kissed me without consent.”

She made a small growl in her throat when he did not choose to respond. He found the sound utterly arousing. He lifted his eyes to hers. “Forgive me. I will not do so again without your permission.”

Surprise chased her features. She frowned and then bobbed her head twice. He disliked that the wariness remained, and he ensured he was gentle as he examined her.

He probed her ankle with efficiency and she winced only once. “Does it hurt here?”

“No, the pain has already eased.”

He nodded, distracted by the silky feel of her stocking-clad calf. He stroked her ankle with his fingertips, and he knew he did not imagine the hitch in her breathing. He lifted his head, curious to see what he would find. Stark desire. The bald hunger in her gaze shook him. She leaned forward and his hands clenched reflexively on her ankle. She hesitated, swallowing, and he watched the struggle, anticipation eating his gut. His mouth went dry when her tongue darted out and wetted her bottom lip.