Page 35 of The MacGregor's Lady
She’d liked his kiss. Not one scintilla of disrespect had marred the gesture, nothing presuming. He smelled good, like Christmas and sweet spices, and he’d kept his hands to himself, touching her only with his lips.
That such a large man could be delicate was breathtaking.
Also deceptive.
“Turn loose of my shoe, sir, or I shall scream.” Hannah used the same tone she regularly applied to her younger brothers, though it apparently had no effect on full-grown earls.
“It’s just a dancing slipper.” He gave the shoe in her hand a hard tug, though not hard enough to wrest it from her grasp. “You have at least twelve pairs. Go ahead and scream. Perhaps it will motivate your aunt to leave her bed for a change.”
No, it wouldn’t—and how lowering was that?
“I will not allow you to visit your fool scheme on my hapless apparel, my lord.”
This gave him pause in the tug-of-war going on between them. “You almost never call me ‘my lord.’” As he made this observation, he seemed to grow larger. He used the shoe to step closer to Hannah, so close she could see his eyes were not in fact black, they were a dark, gold-flecked brown.
And bore no hint of compromise.
A startled gasp came from the doorway as a maid bearing a tea tray came to an abrupt halt, eyes wide.
“Leave us,” the earl barked. The maid set the tray on the low table before the settee, dipped a curtsy, and departed.
The dancing slipper was of that pale shade of pink referred to as Maiden’s Blush. Hannah could not envision an occasion when she’d be caught dead in such a color, but her newly acquired collection included Spring Dew (green), Moondust (ivory), Spanish Pewter (gray), and assorted other impracticalities.
The earl leaned closer, nose to nose with Hannah. “I would verra much like a cup of tea.” He turned up Scottish when intent on a goal.
“Unless you’re going to drink it out of this dancing slipper, then you’d best let me have my shoe back.”
He turned loose of the slipper, but for a long moment did not step back.
A visual contest of wills ensued, two people locked in mutual, unblinking glowers, even as Hannah knew she was being ridiculous. She forgot she could not back down, and instead took note of the contrasts in the earl’s morning attire. His shirt was snow white, his cravat dark blue silk, his morning coat a darker blue, and his shirt studs and sleeve buttons gold. His waistcoat was of yet another shade of blue embroidered in a paisley pattern with gold threads.
With his dark complexion, the ensemble was quietly elegant and… lovely.
And again, his scent—nutmeg, clove, cinnamon—stronger than it had been the previous evening. With something like amazement, Hannah watched her own hand reach up and free a fold of his cravat from the lapel of his coat. She eased one finger between soft layers of fabric, tugged silk from linen and wool, then smoothed her palm over the center of his chest.
He moved back slowly, as if he’d spotted a predator across a clearing in the woods and was avoiding the snap of even a single twig.
“Shall you pour, Miss Hannah?”
He sounded damnably composed, while for Hannah, something wild and fluttery paced the confines of her belly. “Of course.”
Balfour waited for her to take a seat, then waited for her to gesture him into the place beside her on the settee, though of all the men he was—lord, Highlander, frontiersman—the earl was the least in evidence.
“You steal my shoes then stand on ceremony, sir?”
“You call me ‘my lord’ only when you’re trying to distract me?”
She did not reach for the teapot. Bad enough when he was being obstinate; now he must turn up teasing.
“Your eyes change color with your mood, Balfour. Did you know that?”
“I suspect it’s true of most people, and I apologize for troubling you over your dancing slipper.”
To distractherself, Hannah began the ritual of the tea service. “My shoes are now safe from your larceny?”
His gaze was on her hands as she added cream and sugar to his Darjeeling then stirred for him, removed the spoon, and passed him his cup and saucer.
“Your hands are cold, Hannah Lynn Cooper. This room is cold, in fact.”
