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Wicked Becomes You(43)

By:Meredith Duran


He lifted his brows. “In the natural order of things? Digestion, I believe.”

She laughed and turned back, put at ease by the joke. “And in the unnatural order? Or can’t we speak of it?” Oh, that was very daring, she thought.

“Oh, we may speak of anything you like, mademoiselle. But first, tell me whom I have the honor of escorting into this pachyderm.”

Her smile lingered. Once again she felt the full measure of courage she’d experienced at dinner, before Alex had sunk all her fun. “A woman who isn’t afraid of beasts.” Or brutes, she added silently.

Mr. Barrington had a fine, square chin, with a cleft that became visible when he laughed. “Have you encountered so many, then?”

“Oh, every day! Beasts have a taste for young ladies, you know.”

“But one can’t blame them when the young lady is so fetching.” He took a step toward her. “I hope none have taken a bite from you, here in Paris?”

“You would not believe how well I wield a parasol.”

“Yet I don’t think you carry one tonight,” he said. “Defenseless as you are, a monster might get ideas.”

A nervous laugh escaped her. “How lucky I am to have the escort of a gentleman, then.”

“A gentleman,” he repeated, and now he sounded distinctly amused. “Was it in search of civilization, then, that you walked into the belly of this creature?”

She stared at him. On a deep breath, she said, “No. It was not.”

His eyes narrowed. He meant to kiss her now; she could see it in the firming of his mouth. Well, she’d succeeded, then. Why else had she come up here with him if not to have a kiss? She was not a nice girl anymore; she was out to satisfy her curiosity. She could kiss as many gentlemen as she liked, provided they cooperated.

But did she want to kiss him? She couldn’t even say. It seemed a daring thing to do—to kiss a man inside the elephant at the Moulin Rouge, the most notorious dance hall on the Continent. Such things only happened to wild women, heroines in novels, somebody’s wicked cousin; her friends would never believe it. She would have to work hard, tomorrow, to believe it herself. Perhaps it would change her understanding of herself. She would look in the mirror and see the stamp of this bravery, this absolute sophistication.

His hand cupped her jaw. She wished his fingers did not feel so damp. He wore his pomade too thick, as well; the sweet scent was overpowering in this small space. Her heart tripped and beat faster as he lifted her chin. He had a mole at the corner of his nose, just behind the curve of his nostril. A racing heart was the hallmark of passion but all she felt was terribly, terribly anxious.

A dark hair was beginning to sprout from his mole.

She screwed her eyes shut. She need not look. She could imagine he was someone else. Alex, perhaps—but with a different and far superior personality.

After a moment, when nothing happened, she opened her eyes again. To her puzzlement, Mr. Barrington had not drawn any closer. He turned her face now toward the light, examining her with a frown. “Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked.

Oh, goodness. He might well have seen her picture in the London newspapers. There had been a photograph published when her engagement had been announced—each of them. “No,” she said.

“Yes,” he said slowly, his fingers tightening, “I feel certain I do.”

“Mr. Barrington,” she said. How clumsy his grip was; it had become a hair shy of painful, now. “I think it very likely we move in different circles.”

“But you look so familiar . . . what did you say your name was?”

She sighed. What ailed these men that made them tarry and waffle, so? Gentlemen in novels seized ladies and ravished them directly. But Alex hemmed and hawed and then stalked away, and this one insisted on babbling. Couldn’t he simply kiss her and be done with it? The longer she had to look at him, the more stray hairs became apparent. “I didn’t say. But my name is—Lily.” That was the name of the girl in the novel she’d read, who had kissed a stranger beneath the stars and fallen in love. The hero, of course, had not sported a mole.

“Lily,” he echoed. “Miss Lily . . . ?”

“Goodrick,” she finished promptly. The surname of the author.

His eyes narrowed. “Lily Goodrick,” he said, as though testing the syllables. “Miss Lily Goodrick.”

“Mr. Rollo Barrington,” she said helpfully. “There. Now we are acquainted.”

He recovered his smile. His thumb stroked down her chin. Nothing ailed him, really, that a pair of tweezers would not cure. “Miss Goodrick, you’re an enchanting little piece. Do you know that?”