Page 30 of No One's Bride
The gentleman grinned like the cat who’d found the cream. His eyes would have bulged from their sockets if he’d seen her hair cascading down her back like a fiery mane. He would have broken into a sweat if he’d wrapped his arms around her lithe body and touched every soft curve.
“If you’d care to wait in the hall, my lord, I shall fetch Mr Murden.” The clerk lingered in the doorway and lowered his voice, but the damn fellow blocked Sebastian’s view. “He’s running a little late. Under the circumstances, I’m sure you understand. And if you can refrain from mentioning the murder to anyone at present, we would be—”
“Yes. Yes.” Patience was not Sebastian’s forte. “My lips are sealed. The mere suggestion of a murder will send your customers fleeing.”
Not wanting to prolong the conversation, he ushered the clerk into the hall, pushed past him and headed for Miss MacTavish.
“Brockton,” he said, though he was desperate to quiz the devil and demand to know what the bloody hell he wanted. “I didn’t realise you knew Miss MacTavish.”
Brockton raised a dark brow, a move akin to throwing down the gauntlet. “We’ve danced together many times over the years,” he lied. The lady spent most of her time hiding behind potted ferns and rarely took to the floor.
“We danced together twice some years ago,” she corrected. “Lord Brockton asked if I’d ride out with him tomorrow. He’s a lover of literature too.”
“He is?” Was Brockton keen to get his hands on More’s rare volume? Or did he have plans to make merry with an original? “Did you tell him you’re engaged for the foreseeable future?”
“The lady agreed to afford me the first dance at Lady Winfield’s ball,” the smug oaf said, grinning like he’d won a round in the White Boar’s fighting pit.
“She meant the third dance. The first two are promised to me.” Sebastian never danced, but he’d be damned if he’d let Brockton have the advantage. “Being a dear family friend, I plan to watch her closely the entire evening.”
Miss MacTavish looked at him like he’d sprouted a carrot for a nose. Then she offered Brockton a smile to light the heavens. “I shall mark ye down for a waltz, my lord. Understand ’tis a while since I’ve danced.”
A waltz!
Sebastian suppressed a growl. Was she trying to provoke him?
“Have no fear, madam,” Brockton said with an arrogant grin. “I happen to be an exceptional lead.”
The fop was so self-assured it was sickening.
“Excuse us, Brockton.” Sebastian placed his hand on Miss MacTavish’s back to guide her away, ignoring the damnable tingling in his palm. “We have an appointment with the auctioneer and haven’t time for idle tattle.”
Brockton stole a moment to appreciate Miss MacTavish’s figure. “We shall continue our conversation at Lady Winfield’s ball. Then your surly chaperone will have no choice but to watch from the wings.”
Silently seething while forced to listen to her polite reply, Sebastian made his discontent known the second they were alone. “Why do you snap at me but bat your lashes at Brockton?” He drew her closer to the clerk’s office while they waited to meet Murden.
The lady ground her teeth together. “Happen because he doesnae act like a doaty bampot. Did ye hear yerself?”
“A doaty bampot? Is that a form of weasel?” It sounded like a bland stew eaten in a remote Highland village, though he suspected it amounted to a mild insult. “Brockton might be amusing, but he’s a known cad. You’d do well to rebuff his advances.”
“As I’m nae looking for a husband, I dinnae see why it matters. And I agreed to dance, nae tumble in a haystack.”
Sebastian smiled to himself. How could a lady be intelligent and so innocent at the same time? “Do mature adults use the wordtumble, or is it a Scottish thing?”
She stiffened her spine. “What would ye call it?”
He cupped her elbow and drew her close. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On the woman.”
Miss MacTavish’s gaze dipped to his mouth. “What would ye call it if ye tumbled me?”
An erotic image slipped into his mind. The lady beneath him in bed, him holding her hands above her head, ramming into her so hard the headboard cracked the plaster. It wasn’t making love, and it wasn’t fucking. Whatever it was, it left his cock baton stiff. Left his body aching. Left him so damnably intrigued.
“No words could describe what would happen if we found ourselves in bed, madam.” Mere days ago, he would have called it a mistake. The thought of bedding an innocent would have been repugnant. “One way or another the earth would shake. There’d be tremors of biblical proportions.”
Her eyes widened as if she found the idea enthralling.
