Page 50 of The Heiress's Daughter
She shrugged. “There are half a dozen men in that ballroom alone who would happily marry me even if my reputation were, I don’t know—purple. For them, my fortune is the only thing that counts.”
He paused and glanced down at her. “And would you want to be tied to a man like that for the rest of your life?”
She wouldn’t, of course. She pretended to ignore the question. “This is a pretty garden, isn’t it?”
“Because you shouldn’t. You should marry a man who loves you, who worships the ground you walk on, a man who would marry you even if you had not a penny in the world.”
What a dream. She rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, there are dozens of men like that, I’m sure.”
“Not dozens,” he said softly. “Just one.”
His voice was deep and soft, and sounded sincere, and she wanted, she really wanted to believe him. But he was a known rake. Seductive little speeches were no doubt second nature to a man like him. She couldn’t let herself believe him, she just couldn’t.
There was a short silence. His words hung in the air a moment then dissipated on the wind. “In any case,” she said, gathering her scattered wits and feigning indignation, “it’s not your business whether I choose to step outside, with whom, or why. You are not my guardian, or my brother—”
“God forbid.”
She gave him a scathing look. “So I will thank you to stop interfering.”
“You’re very cross still for someone who only wanted a little fresh air. Aren’t you breathing in plenty of it now?” He took a deep breath. “Can you smell that? It’s rosemary, isn’t it?”
The fact that there wasn’t even a hint of rosemary in the air added to her annoyance. Lord Randall was playing with her. He took nothing seriously, the wretch.
“It wasn’t just the fresh air, it was—” She broke off and, feeling her cheeks warming, looked away.
“What? What was this mysterious reason then, if it wasn’t for air?”
Fighting her blush, desperately hoping he couldn’t see it in the dim light of the garden, she didn’t answer.
A soft breeze soughed through the garden, sending the lanterns swaying and shadows dancing. “Good God, you were going to let him kiss you, weren’t you?”
“So what if I was?” she flashed. “It isn’t a crime. I’m sure he wanted to, and I’ve never—” She broke off.
“You’ve never what? Been kissed? Is that it? Well, all I can say is that with that luscious mouth of yours, the men you’ve been meeting must be dreadful slow-tops.”
“Is that so?” What did he mean,luscious mouth?
“Yes, and I consider myself the worst of them. Come along.” He drew her into a shadowed alcove.
“What are you do—”
Before she could finish, he drew her into his arms. Clarissa knew she ought to resist, but somehow she couldn’t.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She was trying for sternness but it came out soft and a little bit breathless.
“Your first kiss shouldn’t be with a clod like Clayborn.”
Chapter Eight
He bent and kissed her, softly at first, just a bare brush of his lips across hers. Yet it somehow seemed to rob her of breath.
Was that it? It was nice, but—
He kissed her again, more deliberately now, his lips soft but his mouth firm, wonderfully firm and masculine. And at the same time soft.
After a moment he pulled back a little. She swallowed. So that was a kiss. It was lovely, but what should she do now? Thank him? She opened her mouth to thank him and oh—he was in her mouth and it was…
She couldn’t think straight. His taste, his heat. Sensations, strange and entrancing, swirled and rippled through her. She clung to him, pressing herself against him, too dazed to do anything except to let him do whatever he wanted. And respond…
