Anthony watched Orwell slicing through the crowd, almost frantic in his attempt to keep Miss Peppiwell in his sight.
“Shall I rescue you?” Anthony questioned, twirling her with powerful movements.
“A crushing of his ego or wealth is not necessary. If you could deposit me in the library, I will be fine.”
Anthony wasted no time deftly whisking her through the throng and down the corridor to the library on the first floor. He hesitated briefly, then ushered her inside.
She withdrew and turned a pointed gaze on him that again had gone arctic. “I thank you, Lord Anthony, and I bid you good night.”
He scanned the room, spying a game of chess resting on a massive oak desk. “Do you play?” He indicated the chessboard as he sauntered toward the drinks table to pour sherry into two glasses.
“I had planned on reading, my lord. I am familiar with Lady Prescott’s library and there is a particular book of Henry James I am eager to read.”
He smiled, as at last some sort of animation entered her features. “Ah.”
“I suppose you are repulsed by females who engage in intellectual discourse, as Lord Hoyt so thoughtfully enlightened me earlier?” The curve of her lips was sardonic.
“Of course not. A woman who reads has much to recommend her.” He frowned, observing the deep wariness that darkened her gaze.
With a single glance, she dismissed him.
He’d never had a female show such immunity to his physique. He fleetingly wondered if her attractions lay with the same sex. It was not vanity, more an awareness of his own sensuality. “Are you deliberately trying to be elusive?”
“Me?” She blinked at him rapidly, the only sign of her surprise. “On the contrary, I am not interested in your charms. I am actually trying to be rid of you.”
His laughter seemed to bemuse her. “Are all Boston ladies as candid as you are?” he asked, appreciating the forthrightness of speech that had not been wrapped in innuendo or sweet evasiveness.
“Shouldn’t I be? I suppose I must acclimate myself to the idea that honesty is frowned upon,” she retorted, her steady gaze challenging him.
He liked it. And was gratified that his guess as to her hometown had proved correct.
“In that case, Miss Peppiwell…” He downed his drink in a single swallow, sauntered forward and lifted her hand, brushing his lips fleetingly over it. He wished the glove did not separate her skin from his.
She graced him with one of those smiles that did not reach her eyes. “Good evening, sir…Lord Anthony.”
He did not release her hand. Some temptations should not be resisted.
With that thought, he dipped his head and captured her lips. He told himself he only did it to see if she could be rattled, but knew it for a lie. The berry ripeness of her lips had been tantalizing him since he first saw them.
He drew her closer and pillowed her breasts to his chest.
He chuckled against the lips she pressed together so primly, but he was not disappointed, for the contours of those lips were soft and luscious. He lifted his head slowly, and smiled at what he saw. No affront, not even a slap to his cheek for his audacity. Just an aloofness and condescending hauteur as she looked down her nose at him, despite the fact he stood much taller. But behind her studied iciness, he swore he detected a spark of heat, a curl of unwilling want in those amber eyes.
His intrigue deepened. He did not believe he had to look any closer.
It was quite possible he had found his future bride in the ice maiden.
…
The Honorable Lord Anthony Thornton was dangerous. His touch evoked an unbidden need Phillipa did not want.
She held herself perfectly still, blanking her mind. His head dipped, bringing his sensual lips down once more to tease hers. Heat rose within her, but Phillipa buried it under hated memories of the cruel taunts and painful grasping of her nemesis.
Lord Anthony’s lips, however, roamed over her warmly, firm and alluring. She repressed a moan that tried to escape. She could not, would not, give him an inkling of the sharp desire that slashed through her body at his touch.
He caressed her lips with a flick of his tongue, and then his soft chuckle vibrated to the core of her. He lifted his head, his lips quirked, and she fought to maintain an air of casual indifference. The bloody scoundrel! “Are you quite finished, my lord?”
“Indeed. I bid you good night, Miss Peppiwell. It was a pleasure dancing with you. Enjoy your reading.”
“Good evening, Lord Anthony.” She kept her features schooled and her feet rooted to the spot as he sauntered out of the library. She did not think his walk one of arrogance, more of inborn confidence. The library door closed with a snick, and befitting the lack of an audience, she wilted.