“And I told you I’d get it back for you,” he said with a hint of sharpness. “So don’t worry your pretty little head.”
“My head is not little and I’m not particularly concerned. Where did you pick up all this dreadful slang, Alex? You should really have a care around Americans!”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “Right. Gwen, as I said—we’ll discuss it later. For now, do go rest.”
It was the smile with which he concluded these remarks that punctured her patience. That smile did not sit naturally on his lips. It was conciliating. Coddling.
He did not believe a word of what she was saying.
Well, she knew a quick way to prove her intentions. Suffragettes and actresses had tested the method. He was going to mock her, no doubt, but at least he would have to take her seriously afterward. “Wait,” she said as he pulled open the door.
He sighed and turned back. “For God’s sake. What?”
She took a deep breath. She could do this. Why not? “You promised to do me a favor, earlier.”
“I am not taking you to Paris,” he said flatly. “I am not your bloody chaperone.”
“No! That wasn’t what I meant to ask.”
Closing the door again, he put his hands into his pockets and waited, although the impatient tap of his boot suggested he would not give her long. “Fire away.”
She was tall for a woman, but as she eyed his mouth, it seemed unwise to leave things to chance. “Perhaps you should sit, first.”
He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, then moved to the nearest chair. Taking a seat, he said somberly, “I am braced.”
She ignored the sarcasm, nodded once, lifted her skirts, and marched toward him.
His brows lifted a fraction.
She smiled.
At two paces’ distance, he tilted his head.
“Stay still,” she warned.
When her skirts hit his knee, his eyes narrowed and he looked as though he would speak. She planted her hands on his upper arms and pressed her mouth to his.
Well. He was made of lean muscle, all right; beneath her hands, his biceps contracted into stone. His lips were warm and motionless. He smelled of soap, very clean, barely a trace of sweat. He’d recently taken a bath, she supposed. Or: he’d recently lowered this long body of his into a bathtub, completely naked.
The thought did something awful and lovely to the pit of her stomach. Her hands slid of their own accord up to his shoulders, and she pressed her mouth harder to his. See a man naked. Good Lord: did she actually intend to add that to her list?
Very softly, his breath hot on her mouth, he spoke. “Gwen. You’re hysterical.”
Her cheeks burning, she pulled back. He sat perfectly still, his blue eyes locked onto hers, his expression impenetrable. What thick, dark eyelashes he had. She wanted to touch them, out of gratitude or wonder: for some reason, he was not laughing at her. “No,” she said, “as I told you, I am done with convention. Also, I am pursuing a question in the scientific fashion. I can’t believe every man kisses like a terrier.”
His nostrils flared. “And?”
She stepped back. “Well, you didn’t slobber. In no way was it canine.”
He came suddenly to his feet, forcing her to look up at him. “Not canine,” he repeated in grim tones. “Gwen. You need to rest now.”
No wonder he hadn’t laughed. He really thought her in the grip of some madness. “I feel quite alert. Besides, actions speak louder than words, so please consider my kiss to be proof—”
He made a queer noise, something between a scoff and a grunt. “That was hardly a kiss.”
“—proof that I’m quite done with behaving myself.” And done with male judgment, too! The whole smug species could toss themselves out a window. “So please don’t waste your time on that silly list, for I won’t marry even if you put a gun to my head—a policy that I think you, of all people, should understand.” Her sore vanity compelled her to add, “And if that wasn’t a proper kiss, it’s not my fault, is it? One would think a man of your reputation might know it requires a bit of effort on your part!”
His lips parted. Finally, for the first time in the ignoble history of their acquaintance, she’d surprised him! Or were his feelings hurt?
What an odd and fascinating idea. It made her feel generous. “Don’t worry about it,” she added. “I’m sure you can do much better than that. Even without proper notice, you rank on par with Trent.”
She turned away, but his strong grip on her elbow pulled her back. “I beg your pardon?”
Why—now his vanity was pricked! The laugh that escaped her was born of sheer astonishment. Alex Ramsey, the jaded sophisticate—how easy he was to rile in this matter! “I said you rank on par with Trent. And far above Pennington! And I’m sure—” His thumb stroked down her forearm, and her voice faltered. Had that been deliberate? “I’m sure other men will rank below you, too, if it makes you feel any better.”