Her eyes dilated slightly as he stroked her palm. He was watching for it. He was watching for everything and anything in her: his senses felt like strands suddenly twined together and snapped taut with great force, anchored somehow into her flesh, so every small movement she made reverberated along his nerves. Which was . . .
Which was unnerving as hell.
I know how to flirt, she had told him. Warned him, more like.
“This is not flirting.” His voice was laconic enough to focus his mind. He dropped her hand abruptly and ran his own over his mouth. He looked toward Elma—ostensibly. But in truth, he was simply testing his ability to look at, to focus on, anything other than Gwen.
Jesus Christ.
The insomnia was rotting his brain.
When her hand touched his sleeve, he had to restrain himself from knocking it away. “What?” he asked curtly. Now would be a good time for Elma to become anxious again, but she was too busy being admired by the American at her elbow.
“What did I do wrong?”
He turned back in disbelief. Gwen did not look at all rattled by what had passed between them. Far from it. Christ, she was grinning.
“You said it wasn’t flirting,” she said earnestly. “I wish to know where I went wrong. Did I not seem drawn to you? Was I not complimentary enough?”
“It wasn’t flirting,” he said curtly, “because you gave the impression that if I slapped a coin down on the table, you’d lift your skirts directly.”
A second too late, he regretted the words. They were born of an anger that he was too old to misinterpret: his goddamned vanity was pricked by how unaffected she seemed.
She stiffened and went pale.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Forgive me, Gwen. That was a spiteful remark.”
“Yes,” she said. Her lower lip trembled.
“Which would have been fine,” he added, “if it had been clever, but it wasn’t. You flirted very well. I’ll admit it.”
Her attempt at a smile failed. “Don’t patronize me, Alex. We are not all born knowing how to be sophisticated. Some of us must learn these tricks.” She stared at her plate now. “I don’t—I’m not looking to seduce anyone, of course. But I told you, I just want to . . . have a bit of fun.”
The words made him feel suddenly impatient. Fun. What a naïve little goal. By some witchy stroke of luck, she was able to get under his skin; perhaps if he were twenty, he’d enjoy becoming her entertainment for a week or two. If he were a different man entirely, he might make good use of her innocence, turning her desire against her and netting three million pounds for his trouble.
The thought lingered, troubling him. Taking advantage of her would be so easy. “Gwen,” he began, but when she glanced up, he trailed off. Be careful, he wanted to say. Of everyone.
But what purchase would such a warning have? He remembered too well the sharp little laugh she’d given yesterday at the idea of being kidnapped.
His conscience stirred. Uncomfortable, creaking sensation. When he found the viscount, he was going to show that piece of shit exactly what happened to men who betrayed their word.
Well, it all came down to the ring. Once he got it back, there would be no excuse for Gwen to linger in Paris. Back under his sisters’ aegis, she’d be fine.
She tipped her chin defiantly. “Mr. Carrega has offered to take me onto the town tonight.”
The Italian lad? Why did she bother to inform him of this? Did she want him to play the brother and forbid her to go? She really needed to make up her mind about that.
“I am considering accepting his invitation,” she added.
“How intelligent of you,” he said courteously.
Her jaw squared. “Nobody else has offered.”
“What a pity. Did you want somebody to offer? Perhaps you should hold up a placard in the lobby to advertise.”
Her sigh sounded impatient. “You have not offered.”
“I have other things to do with my time than squire around debutantes,” he said. “However, if you would muster the courage to ask me, I might just take you anyway. I imagine it would be amusing, watching your eyes pop like saucers.” Indeed, the experience would serve her well when it came to picking another groom. Strip away a bit of that naiveté, and she would not go into the next match so blindly.
Her eyes did not pop. They narrowed. “I’m not sure I want your company.”
“Then viva l’italia,” he said, and took a long drink of his wine. Of course, there was no way in hell that Elma would let her go with the Italian, and Gwen knew it.
“But yes,” she said. “If you’d take me out for a bit of fun, I would be grateful.”