Her lips twitched, but she said in a severe tone, “That’s not any better.”
“The truth is rarely pretty. Not in this case, anyway.” He limped back to his chair and sat. When he noticed her lifted eyebrows he said, “I should stand? My leg hurts.”
“You could have invited me to take a seat, as well.”
“But you were cold and wished to be near the fire.”
“Kirk, when you’re being polite, you sometimes ask things even though you know the answer.”
“That sounds like a damn waste of time.”
“And you shouldn’t curs—” She sighed. “Oh, never mind.”
She turned and moved closer still to the fire, the amber light warming her skin, bringing out the faintest hint of red in her brown curls, and catching the red light of the garnet earrings that hung from her delicate earlobes. The earrings must hold special meaning, for she rarely wore any others.
They’re pretty, but garnets aren’t good enough. She deserves rubies. Rich, red, bold rubies.
Kirk smiled to himself at the thought. She really was a pretty woman, his Dahlia. Beautiful, even, if not in the showy manner preferred by the shallow-hearted followers of fashion. No, her beauty consisted of a purity of line of nose and jaw, and the ripe curve of her lips. Her skin, not the colorless white so favored by the maidens here, seemed fresh and young, dusted with a smattering of freckles that begged a man to trace them with his lips.
She lifted her skirts the tiniest bit and extended one daintily slippered foot toward the fire. As she did so, she moved to one side and suddenly, the light from the fire silhouetted her slender legs through the material of her gown.
His heart slammed an extra beat and he found himself unable to look away. God, but she’s gracefully shaped, with rounded calves and thighs that beg for a man’s hand. She has none of this scrawny thinness that’s so fashionable. Who could even think of such bone-baggery when faced with such generous, lush curves?
She turned her head and met his gaze, catching him in midstare. His face heated and he blurted out, “You are standing too close to the flames. You’ll catch your skirts afire.” His voice was harsh, rude even, and she flushed, but after a stilted moment she moved away and he was spared the torment of seeing her fair form outlined before the flames.
He examined the line of her mouth and knew he’d angered her once more. “I’m sorry if I spoke too harshly, but the thought of you bursting into flames is untenable.” Actually, I’m the one who’s the most likely to burst into flames.
“I wish you’d regulate your tone. You always sound so angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“Really, I’m not. I was merely concerned.” And aroused beyond all belief. “So about my ‘scheme,’ as you call it.”
“Yes. I’ve changed my mind about participating because it wouldn’t be wise. Besides, perfecting such a skill with you wouldn’t necessarily transfer to another man.”
That was a very good point, for kissing someone else wouldn’t be at all like kissing Dahlia. For one thing, he couldn’t give a damn about anyone else he’d met, and didn’t expect to.
But Dahlia . . . she was a different matter altogether. Not that he was—as so many emotionalists seemed to think necessary—“in love,” for he wasn’t. He was too mature for such nonsense now, but he was far from dead and had to admit that, besides their compatibility, he was beginning to recognize that a certain physical attraction flowed between them as well—which convinced him even more that they should pursue their former relationship.
He regarded her from under his lashes. “I worry for us both should we bump foreheads and teeth while trying to attract someone.”
“It won’t happen again. Next time, I shall be more cautious.”
The thought of her “next time” not being with him made him want to leap to his feet and roar, but he forced himself to shrug. “That may satisfy you, but I’ve no wish to appear foolish and am determined to overcome my awkwardness in this area. I suppose if you don’t wish to assist me, then I will just have to ask someone else.”
It had been a shot in the dark, but her gaze instantly locked with his. “Who?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it, since you and I had our agreement, but I’m sure I’ll find someone.” He held his breath and waited.
But instead of recanting her decision, she sent him a blazing look and marched past him, moving so quickly that her skirts swirled about her ankles.
“Wait!” He climbed to his feet and limped forward. “Dahlia, please, just— We had a purpose in meeting today. I cannot allow you to walk away.”
At his words, she stopped. Her head bent and he could see where her thick brown hair had been swept up to reveal the delicate nape of her neck. God, but he longed to press his mouth to that tantalizing spot. She would shiver with longing, and then—
“Dahlia, please. I’m trying—” He sighed heavily.
Dahlia pressed a hand to her forehead. His sigh tugged at her heart, although she knew it shouldn’t. Not everyone at the duchess’s understood his abrupt ways, and already there were those who mocked him. Her hand curled into a fist. He’d been through so much already, losing his wife and fighting the injuries that had maimed and scarred him. At the very least, he deserved respect and politeness, but he would get neither unless someone assisted him.
She took a deep breath, and then turned to face him. “If we are going to continue to be friends, then you must stop—” She spread her hands. “You must stop all of this.”
“All of what?”
“To begin with, you cannot order me about as if I’m one of the footmen you had standing guard.”
“I didn’t order them; I bribed them.”
“Then you’ve paid them more courtesy than you have me.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m making a damned mull of this, aren’t I?”
Despite herself, she was caught by the bewildered look in his eyes. “Yes, but it wouldn’t matter if you weren’t, for I’d already decided not to continue with this improper plan of yours. We should not be alone even now.”
“The door is open.”
“True. That saves us a bit, although someone could come along and assume that . . .” She gestured with a hand.
“I see.” He rubbed the scar on his cheek.
Dahlia wondered if he even knew he did it. She’d noticed months ago that whenever he was perplexed by something, his fingers traced his scar, as if in doing so, it might clear his thoughts.
Her heart softened the tiniest bit more. He was trying so hard, and he’d already made so many changes—his clothing, his hair. And rough as they still were, his manners were vastly improved. Even the fact that he’d noticed she was chilled was a step forward from the totally self-absorbed man she’d known before, one who’d lived alone for so long that it never dawned on him that other people might feel cold, or hunger, or—well, anything, unless he was feeling it, too.
He is trying. That’s worth a lot from someone who has never made an effort.
She sighed. “Kirk, please try to understand.”
“I only want success—for both of us.”
“Sadly, your idea of practicing a kiss can only lead to disaster, whomever you decide to practice with.” For some reason, that last bit left a bitter taste on her tongue.
Humor glinted in his dark eyes. “Kisses can lead to many places, my dear. A disaster is but one.” His voice deepened. “ ‘When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past—For years fleet away with the wings of the dove—The dearest remembrance will still be the last—’ ” He lifted his brows.
“ ‘—our sweetest memorial, the first kiss.’ ” She was unable to keep from smiling. “While I can easily resist you, I’m no match for Byron.”
“He is one of your weaknesses. Personally—” He curled his nose.
She sent him a rueful look. “As you’ve told me many times before. You must w
ant to win this argument very, very badly to quote a poet you don’t even like.”
“I must. A first kiss is of the utmost importance in building a relationship.”
“Sadly, with your manners, you’ll never get close enough to any woman to offer a kiss.”
To her surprise, his grin merely became more wolfish. “It would surprise you, what passes as flirtation among the romantic of your sex.”
What does that mean?
Before she could consider it, he stepped forward and said, “Come, Dahlia, let’s start this conversation over.” When she hesitated, he added, “Here. I’ll begin.” He came to stand before her and bowed. “Good morning, Miss Balfour. How are you?”
His tone and manner were perfect, but so . . . odd and unlike him that while she knew she should be complimentary about them, a small part of her sighed as if she’d lost something.
Don’t be ridiculous. She curtsied. “Good morning, my lord.” As she stood, she leaned forward and said in an undertone, “Your bow is perfect.”
“I have a good teacher. My new valet was once in the Duke of Wellington’s employ.”
“Was he? How did you come by him?”
“The duchess, of course. Our godmother is a woman of many resources.”
“So he’s been instructing you in—” She gestured lamely.
“I believe the phrase you are searching for is ‘the gentlemanly arts.’ That’s what Lady Charlotte would call it.”
“Ah. And for how long have you been receiving this tutelage?”
“For two months now, although apparently it wasn’t long enough.”
She had to smile. “No, no. You’re much better than you were.”
He grimaced. “Ouch.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Of course not. If MacCreedy were here now, he’d tell me that a good dose of small talk would be just the thing. Perhaps we should discuss the weather. I’ve been told that’s a safe topic.” He looked at the windows, which were covered with frost. “It’s cold.”
She waited, but he seemed to think he’d done his job well, for he merely turned his gaze back to hers. “Well?” he asked finally. “Don’t you think it’s cold?”
She had to chuckle. “You don’t enjoy this, do you?”
“I hate it,” he agreed promptly. “Why waste words on the obvious? I can make no sense of the reason, thus I cannot do it well.”
“It does seem redundant at times.”
“Worse, it’s boring and stupid and— Don’t get me started.”
“It’s only meant to fill the silence until you can think of something of merit to say.”
“I’d rather skip to the observations that have merit. For example, I’ve noticed that you dance very well.”
“You’ve never seen me dance.”
“I have, too. The night of our argument. I came back downstairs.”
And watched me. For some reason, a little thrill raced through her. “Thank you. I’m flattered.”
“It’s merely dancing, which is hardly a skill worth mentioning.”
She threw her hands in the air. “And there you go, ruining a perfectly nice compliment.”
He looked astounded. “That ruined it?”
“Yes. Completely.”
“But I didn’t realize you could dance at all.”
She could either laugh or cry, and frankly, his obvious astonishment was too comical to ignore. “Oh, Kirk, please. For both of our sakes, say no more.”
“I was going to add that you were even graceful.” He looked offended at her laughter. “Damn it, did I spoil it again?”
“The word ‘even’ made it far from a compliment.”
“Good God, one word and I’m awry. It’s all nonsense, I tell you.”
“Perhaps.” Taking pity on him, she tucked her hand in his arm. “Come, let us stroll to the window and look at this weather.”
He fell into step immediately, sending her a quizzical glance. “So this is part of the inane business of ‘small talk’?”
“It can be.”
“That’s good to know, for I like looking at the weather much better than talking about it.”
They stopped by the window, where a steel gray sky sat atop trees and the grass was rippled by a cold wind.
Dahlia went to pull her hand from his arm, but Kirk placed his hand over hers and held it there.
Such a move wasn’t at all within the boundaries of polite behavior, but there was something nice about his hand resting over hers, so warm and cozy, as if it belonged there.
He glanced down at her. “When did you learn to dance? I can’t imagine you had much practice while living at Caith Manor.”
“There were local assemblies and some small balls.”
“In our neighborhood?”
“Yes—which you’d know, if you ever left your home or made yourself available to your neighbors.”
“I detect a note of censure.”
“You, sir, are a hermit.”
“I like my own company.”
“You’re a hermit, and are the most happy when you’re alone. You should admit it and be done with it.”
“That’s not true. There’s one person whose company I prize more highly than my own.” His gaze never left hers.
Dahlia didn’t know where to look. “Only one?” she heard herself ask breathlessly.
“Only one.”
If any other man had made her such a compliment, she’d have accused him of being a hardened flirt. But there was no guile in Kirk’s eyes, no curve to his lip to assure her he was teasing. There was nothing but the bold intensity of a look that was far too direct, a hand that fit far too well over hers, and a soul far too tender to play the games society demanded.
He means every word he says. He always has. And therein lies his vulnerability. He won’t understand when others aren’t so forthright. She wished she could warn him, but before she could say anything, his fingers tightened over hers and he drew her closer still.
She suddenly found it difficult to breathe and her gaze locked with his once more. His eyes were of the richest brown swirled with gold, which made her think of the luxurious sable coat her sister had worn at her wedding. For one wild moment, Dahlia wondered what it would be like to have those eyes gaze upon her every day.
Kirk saw the softening of Dahlia’s mouth and his body tightened instantly. “You know I’m not happier alone. If I were, I’d never have proposed to you.”
Her lashes lowered and she said, “Perhaps ‘happy’ isn’t the right word.”
“It’s the damned wrong word, is what it is.”
She broke into a sudden, soft laugh.
He stiffened. “What?”
Her eyes twinkled up at him. “You cannot help yourself, can you? Every other word is a curse word, and every other sentence is a rude declaration of some sort.”
“Actually, it’s more like every fifth word. I know, for MacCreedy has been keeping count.”
“That’s very kind of him.”
“No, it’s not, but he enjoys it.”
She chuckled and said in a gentle voice, “We were supposed to be talking about the weather.”
“I’d rather talk about something that matters. About us, in fact.”
Her expression closed, the laughter fading from her lips. “Kirk, there isn’t an ‘us.’ ”
He had to bite back a fierce desire to sweep her to him and kiss her until they couldn’t breathe. Not now and not like that, he told himself firmly. But soon. “We know one another; it’s to our benefit to look after each other’s interests.”
“I don’t think it’s wise.”
“You’re wrong. But if you wish, then you can assist me out of the mere kindness of your heart.”
“And you’ll leave my goals alone?”
“To find ‘true love’?” At her nod, he grimaced, but said, “I’ll try.”
“I suppose that is better than nothing.”
“Good. Now, about m
e—” He glinted a smile at her that was at once so mischievous and so masculine that her lips trembled to return it. “Since you won’t have me, I shall now start searching for a mate—”
“I do hate that word.”
“Fine, then, a wife. I’m searching for a wife.”
She didn’t look happier, but she said, “That’s much better.”
He could feel her heart beating through the delicate veins in her wrist beneath his hand. “And you?” he asked. “You’re looking for true love, but what else? What other attributes should this mystery suitor possess?”
“Hold. I thought you were going to leave me out of this completely.”
“I’m merely asking a question. Do you have any ideas? Tall? Short? Thin? Athletic?”
She sent him an exasperated look. “There you go. You’ve moved out of the acceptable area of small talk and completely into the impolite realm of the ‘too familiar.’ ”
“If I were to talk about the blasted weather, it would bore us both and then I’d say something foolish, and you’d get angry—with reason, but still—and then I’d try to apologize, but you wouldn’t accept—” He shrugged. “We might as well skip all of that and discuss something that assists us both.” When she hesitated, he said bluntly, “You’re worried about something. It’s in your eyes.”
She sighed, and as she did so, she leaned a bit against him, her breast warm against his arm. “I shouldn’t talk to you about this, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”
“You’ve no one else to talk to.”
“True. I admit I’m a bit worried about this undertaking.”
“I don’t blame you. There is no more serious undertaking than marriage.”
“My sisters are happily married, both of them. My parents were, too. It’s quite a challenge to follow in their footsteps. I can only hope that I’ll make someone a good wife, for I truly wish to be happily married, too.”
He watched her from under his lashes. She would be an excellent wife. She was beautiful, amusing, intelligent, well read, appreciated the arts, played the pianoforte with a passion that made his heart melt, was compassionate and gentle—he had to bite back a desire to demand how she could think she’d be anything but an excellent wife. “Don’t be foolish.”