“Where are we going?” he heard her ask as he pulled her along behind him.
Her voice sounded wary, and rightly so. After all, he was leading her away from the ballroom with the inappropriate intention of getting her completely alone where no one would be likely to disturb them. “In here,” he said, ushering her into a room as he swiftly closed and locked the door behind him. It was his library—his sanctuary—a place where he could just relax and be himself. Turning around, he found Miss Smith eyeing him as if he’d been a no-good pirate who’d just asked her to sail the seven seas. Not exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for.
Intent on putting her at ease, he said the first thing that popped into his head. “What’s your favorite food, Miss Smith?”
He saw her frown, as if she was examining his motive for posing such an absurd question. But then her expression eased and she said, “Strawberries, Your Grace. Not baked in a pie or turned to jam, but fresh, plump, juicy strawberries.”
Anthony stared back at Miss Smith—at her lips, to be exact. Her talk of strawberries only served to make him wonder what those lovely lips of hers might taste like, and worse, how he might go about discovering it.
He watched as she walked across to one of the bookcases and gave its contents a close inspection.
“What is all this?” she asked.
Anthony shrugged. “My collection, I suppose.” He’d forgotten about it in his hurry for privacy—had intended to have it all moved upstairs to his bedroom so nobody else would see it. Not that he cared if anyone happened to think it strange that he liked turning bits of scrap into something more, but there was something personal and private about it that made him want to protect it from scrutiny. Casper was the only person outside his family who’d seen his work. He held his breath now, waiting for Miss Smith’s evaluation.
“Did you make these?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at him briefly before returning her attention to an elegant lady that he’d fashioned from a crooked nail, two brass buttons, a bit of fabric and some twine. He’d had a devil of a time getting her face right, recalling how he’d had to wipe the paint away twice before it had looked just the way he’d wanted it to.
Scratching the back of his head as he stepped forward, he didn’t answer right away but watched instead as she moved on to the next figure—a dog made from bits of folded newspaper and painted black. “Yes,” he said, feeling much the same as when he’d had to make that dratted toast.
Again he found himself holding his breath, but then she turned around to face him, her eyes wide as she said on a whisper of breath, “They’re splendid.”
Splendid.
The sense of elation that buzzed through him, replacing the nervousness with warm pleasure, was heady indeed, for she had voiced her praise as though she’d been looking at a fantastic landscape painting complete with a castle, some mountains and a boat upon a lake, so vividly depicted that one might imagine stepping right into the scenery. Instead, she was merely regarding some odd bits and pieces that he’d glued, tied and pinned together to make some funny-looking characters. It was absurd really, and yet he couldn’t ignore the admiration that shone in her eyes, for it was the first time that anyone had ever looked at him quite like that—as if he’d been capable of magic.
With renewed determination, he stepped forward and took her hand in his, enjoying her sharp intake of breath and the way her pulse fluttered against his fingertips. “Who are you really?” he asked, his eyes meeting hers as he moved even closer.
She shook her head. “I cannot say,” she whispered.
“Why not?” he asked as he cupped her head with his hands, forcing her to look at him. “I won’t tell a soul if you do not wish for me to do so. Your parents will never discover that you were here, and neither will your intended, but I need to know who you are . . . the name of the woman who’s captured my interest.”
“Please stop,” she muttered as she tried to back away from him. She couldn’t go far, for the bookcase was right behind her. “Whatever it is that you wish from me is impossible. You’re a duke and I—” She clamped her mouth shut.
Anthony leaned toward her. “You’re what, Miss Smith?” he asked as his eyes searched hers for answers. There was fear there, the sort of fear that he could not begin to understand. What on earth would have her so worried?
“You will ruin everything for me,” she said, avoiding his question. “My parents are counting on me to do the right thing and yet here you are, determined to make a mess of it. I won’t let you.”
“Is your father in debt to this man? Did he perhaps lose you to him in a game of cards?” Anthony asked, the desperation he felt at her rejection filling him with anger. “Because if that is the case, then let me talk to them. I can—”
“No,” she said. One simple word that hung in the air between them, promising to tear away whatever dreams Anthony had of sharing a future with Miss Smith.
“Don’t do this,” he said. “Don’t marry a man you do not care for when you and I . . .” He took a deep breath to steady himself against the onslaught of emotions that whipped through him at the thought of having to relinquish all hope. “You cannot deny that there’s something between us—something more than what is usual between two people who have only just met.”
Jaw clenching, she tilted her head backward and looked him squarely in the eye, saying, “While your company has been charming, I fear I must disappoint you, for I noticed no such thing.”
She was lying. Anthony had seen the flash of concession that had marked her features for a second before she’d managed to train them. “Is that so?” he asked as he backed her further up against the bookcase, jolting the heavy piece of furniture enough for one of his figures to fall over. Miss Smith gasped, her eyes startled and her body stiff. She would not deny them their happiness, Anthony decided. “I do believe I am about to prove you wrong.”
Capturing her head with his hands he lowered his mouth over hers and moved closer until he was pressed up against her, the faint taste of the lemonade she’d recently drunk still present upon her lips. She felt rigid against his embrace, and he half expected her to start flailing him for his unsolicited advances. But since she wasn’t hitting him yet, or even attempting to get away from him, for that matter, he decided to move ahead with his attempt at enticement and slowly ran the tip of his tongue along her bottom lip. She shivered. There could be no denying that. “Kiss me back,” he whispered as he kissed his way along her jawline and toward her ear, licking the edge of her lobe just enough to—
“Oh God,” she moaned, her arms reaching around him and tugging him against her as if she was drowning and he was her lifeline.
Everything that followed was a frenzy of movement, as if neither could get enough of the other. He’d done it—he’d acted on the rakish impulse he’d tried so hard to repress since making her acquaintance.
Suppressing the guilt that threatened to surge, Anthony allowed his hands to move down Miss Smith’s back while his tongue roamed over hers, and all he could think of was strawberries. Plump and juicy strawberries, or even better, Miss Smith biting into said strawberries. He’d never considered the possibility that there could be something erotic about food, and yet Miss Smith had changed that for him—she’d spoken of strawberries with that delicious mouth of hers and he knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that strawberries would forevermore be reminiscent of something delightful and enticing.
Tilting her chin for better access, he kissed her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her, though he couldn’t quite place it. He’d thought of honeysuckles earlier, but that wasn’t it. It wasn’t roses or lavender either as was commonly used by ladies, but something entirely different—something pure, like the sunset in the evening or the dew upon the grass in the morning. “I love the way you smell,” he murmured as he kissed his way along her collarbone. “Tell me, what is it?”
“Chamomile and honey—from the soap I use.” Her breath was raspy as she spoke, her fingers twining through his hair, holding him against her with a desperation that matched his own. The pulse at her neck was beating fast—he could see it, that rapid thrum of excitement.
Encouraged by her response and by the way his own blood roared through his veins, he grew daring, allowing his hands to slide down her back until he cupped her bottom, squeezing her slightly as he pulled her against his own hardness. Her eyes widened, but her back arched as he’d expected, pushing her breasts forward and up until they strained against her bodice. “Make no mistake, Miss Smith. I want you more than I have ever wanted anything else before in my life. It may defy logic, but I am powerless to stop it.” He deliberately lowered his eyes to her breasts, a helpless smile tugging at his lips. “Say what you will, but I know that you feel it too, as evidenced by your eagerness to—”
“How dare you?” she snapped, cutting him off as she wrenched herself away from him, killing the moment and surprising him in the process.
Anthony froze. What the devil was going on? Had she not just been cavorting in his arms as though her life was entirely dependent upon his kisses? Where was the anger coming from? For there was definitely anger. Plenty of it, in fact, as he caught a glimpse of her stormy eyes.
“You . . . you . . . argh!” With a hard shove she pushed him away, just enough for her to escape his closeness. She stopped at a reasonable distance and turned to face him as she held her hands up before her. “Stay right where you are,” she warned.
Her breathing was still coming fast, and there was a blush to her cheeks that put Anthony more at ease, for it suggested that her temper hadn’t flared because of his kiss or even because of what he’d said (though he felt sure she’d have a different opinion on the matter), but rather because she’d just realized that he was in fact right. She pointed an accusing finger toward him. “I had everything worked out before I met you,” she said. “I knew my life wasn’t perfect, but it was one I was willing to accept. My mother was right to warn me about the stories I chose to read. Fairy tales are for children. As adults, we must think rationally and without dreams of the impossible clouding our judgment. I know this, and yet I was still determined to come here this evening—some deep-rooted wish to experience the fairy-tale splendor of the legendary Kingsborough Ball—before I lost the chance forever. The memory of this evening was intended to last me a lifetime. But then I met you and—”
“And?” Anthony asked carefully as he moved hesitantly toward her.
She let out a quivering sigh, and when her eyes met his again, there was desperation there—like that of a trapped animal. “And I found myself hoping for more—wishing for something that isn’t meant to be. Don’t you see? You’ve ruined my life by kissing me, for it will be impossible for my future husband to live up to what we just shared, and because of that, I will have to live with the regret of what might have been had things been different, as will you.”
It was bloody difficult not to smile with male pride in response to her words, but he attempted a serious expression anyway, hoping for a look of concern. “It doesn’t have to be like this. We can be together if you’ll only tell me who you are so I can speak to your father. I’ll ask for permission to court you and—”
“I’ve already told you it’s impossible, so please, stop making this more difficult than it already is,” she said. Her shoulders slumped, and she gave him a sad little smile. “I should probably go.”
“And miss the fireworks?” Anthony asked, knowing full well that he was trying to find any reason to hold on to her for just a little while longer. Perhaps if they spoke some more she’d let something slip—some small detail that would help him find her again, because whatever ridiculous reason she thought there might be for denying his courtship, he was confident he’d be able to fix it once he knew what it was. He saw her pause and decided to press his advantage. “You really can’t say that you’ve attended the Kingsborough Ball without seeing the fireworks.”
She looked skeptical but eventually nodded. “Very well, Your Grace. I will agree to watch the fireworks, but as soon as they are over, I really must take my leave. Are we in agreement?”
“Certainly, Miss Smith,” Anthony said, knowing full well that it was the best deal he was likely to get at that moment.