Marcus stretched out his legs before him, as much as the carriage would allow, and settled comfortably into his corner. It wasn’t as plush or as well-adorned a carriage as his own, but it was enough to keep Honoria from trudging through the dirty streets on her way to whatever errands she possessed. In a way, he felt rather… chivalrous. Whether she knew it or not, it was better to ride in the carriage. And far better than leaving herself open to the gawking gazes of the rakes and fribbles who abounded Bond Street.
In fact, now that Marcus thought about it, he had not only saved her from the dirt and a heavy wind, but he had also possibly kept her from being importuned.
Yet still she sat across from him now, stiff as a board, her feet firmly planted on the carriage floor, her mouth folded in disapproval, completely unaware of the good deed he’d just performed on her behalf.
He eyed her mouth a moment. “You are much prettier when you smile.”
She slanted him a glance filled with fiery irritation. She had such unusual eyes… such a clear hazel. The fact that her lashes were the same rich sable of her hair only made them appear brighter. “My lord, with you, there is regrettably little to smile about.”
“Oh? What about this?” And without any more thought, he leaned forward and kissed her. Not a harsh kiss, or even a very passionate one. They were, after all, in a carriage still navigating the bumpy trespasses of Bond Street. But a quick hard kiss, one that set her in her place and marked her as his.
Marked her as his.
The thought froze him back in his seat. Good God, where had that come from? He had no more wish to make Miss Priss his than he desired to become a coal scuttler. Less, even. At least a coal scuttler had some hope for a better future.
Pushing the unwanted thoughts aside, he straightened. His companion, meanwhile, simply glared. After an uncomfortable moment, he finally said, “I apologize for that. I just wanted to make a point.”
“Oh you made a point. If before I thought you a bothersome man, now I’m certain you’re that and more. You’re rude, irksome, asinine, overbearing, arrogant, insufferable—”
“But talented at kissing.”
Her mouth dropped open.
Marcus grinned. “Come, Miss Baker-Sneed. You seem like a woman to prize honesty above all else. Be honest about this: you have never been better kissed than in my company.”
Honoria closed her mouth and snapped open her reticule in a vain attempt to appear as if she was looking for a handkerchief. In reality, she needed a moment to gather her thoughts. The lout was right—she
did
prize honesty above all other things.
The problem was, admitting to Marcus St. John that he’d given her not just a good kiss, but the best—and only real— kisses she’d ever known… well, that was an admission of no small price. He’d gloat; she was certain of it. And each and every gloat would turn her stomach bitter and cause her soul to cringe.
She found her handkerchief, deliberately wiped her“ mouth, and then returned the handkerchief to her reticule, snapping it closed for emphasis. ”Whether you are talented at kissing or not, it was still inappropriate.“
“That’s the problem with kissing: there are so few appropriate times. And so, one must be creative. Still, I thank you for the compliment of believing me the best kisser of your acquaintance.”
“I never said that.”
“No, but you didn’t deny it either, which is just as significant.”
“That’s nothing to brag about because my experience is sorely limi—” She suddenly realized she was not ready to admit the barren truth of her life—that she
had
no experience. Not in the area of kissing. At least not any that she could recall with clarity. There had been a rector in Kensington, but that had been years ago. And then there was the cousin of one of her father’s business investors… he’d had very wet lips, as she recalled. That kiss had been rather unpleasant and… dampish.
Of course, the real difference between the cloudy kisses of her past and the painfully clear ones she’d experienced with the marquis wasn’t just that he had fine, firm lips, the kind that made you want to trace your fingers over and feel the warmth of his breath.
No, the real difference had been that she’d actually kissed him back. Her pervious encounters had been sneak attacks, unexpected clutches by men of awkward nature and lackluster character. But the kisses the marquis had pressed on her had been warm, naturally sensual, delivered by a person of passion and wit, and they had all sent her body into an instant flutter.
“Well?” he said, his deep voice laced with amusement. “What of your experience?”
She bit her bottom lip for a moment, wondering what she could say. Certainly not the truth—her pride wouldn’t allow it. And she had no intentions of lying. That left her with one option. She clutched her reticule with both hands and sent her companion a glare of no small magnitude. “I refuse to answer that question. It is unmannerly and rude.”
“I only repeated what you—”
“If you intend on attempting a seduction in the hopes of garnering the ring, it won’t work.”
His brow lowered. “Wait a moment, I wasn’t—”
“Furthermore, it is far beneath you to press your unwanted attentions on someone who has clearly said she does not wish them.”
“I think that is quite enough,” he said grimly, all of his earlier humor gone.
The sight sent Honoria’s heart plummeting, but she really had no choice. She either made the mortifying admission that she had no real experience in kissing, or she attacked the marquis’s character to the point that he no longer wished to know about her past. Or her present, for that matter.
She swallowed, the words sticking uncomfortably to the roof of her mouth. “My lord, I believe you should stop the carriage and let me out.”
He regarded her for a long moment. “No, I don’t believe I will.”
“It would be better for all concerned if—”
One moment she was sitting in her corner of the carriage, feeling miserable and alone, and the next she was lifted and unceremoniously placed in the marquis’s lap.
“Well,” he drawled, his deep voice deliriously rich against her ear. “Since I have no redeeming traits, I might as well toss all pretenses at decorum to the winds.”
She glanced at him, astonished at the fiery brightness of his eyes. Her heart pounded a warning against her throat. “Wh-What are you going to do?”
“It seems we cannot talk without arguing,” he said grimly. “However, our communication in other areas is extraordinary. Therefore, I am going to kiss you. Again.”
“Again?” Surely that wasn’t her voice, breathless and rather… excited?
“Indeed. I shall kiss you until you cannot talk. Cannot argue. Cannot even speak a coherent word. And that, my lady, is exactly what I am going to do, the ring and your scruples be damned.”
There we were, watching Miss Hereford the entire evening while she smiled and danced and talked to everyone but us. Poor Southland got more and more despondent, but he would not budge an inch and so we stayed not ten yards from the refreshment table for hours and hours, looking like the greatest gudgeons on earth. “’Twas deuced ridiculous. You won’t catch me, sitting around and waiting on a woman, not if I live to be a hundred and twenty. That’s for damn certain!
Mr. Cabot-Hewes to his sister, Lady Marianne McDabney at Fountainhead, their family home, as they joined their parents for dinner
Up until this moment in his controlled and settled life, Marcus had never felt the least urge to cross the lines of propriety. But somehow, during the onslaught caused by the heady warmth of Honoria’s lush body against his own, he found himself in the most extraordinary circumstances—he didn’t really give a damn about society, about propriety, about anything but continuing to hold Honoria. As a gentle-man, he should have instantly released her. And normally, he would not hesitate to describe himself as a gentleman.
But today… in this moment, something was different. And instead of rigidly maintaining his decorum, he found himself treading all over the boundaries of
good
behavior, trampling mercilessly through the maze of polite society, and ruthlessly tossing to the winds every lesson his oh-so-correct tutor and ever-so-polite mama had taught him about comportment. To make it all the more confusing, he felt not the least remorse. If anything, he felt rather… pleased. Very pleased, in fact.
And all because of a very kissable, very warm armful of woman.
Marcus was amazed at this welter of emotion and feeling. He looked down at her now. Held against his chest, she glared up at him, her bonnet askance, her skirts rumpled and tucked under her, her face a study in feminine outrage. Not quite sure why, he found himself grinning, a deep satisfaction rising in him at the feeling of her curvaceous form pressed against him.
“Let me go!” She struggled, once, briefly, her bonnet slipping the rest of the way off and hanging suspended about her throat by the ribbons.
Marcus almost chuckled. She looked so outraged—rather like a kitten that had no wish to be picked up but had been. Honoria suddenly stopped her struggles, obviously fighting an inner battle between the desire to win her freedom and a very feminine need to preserve her dignity. “I will not allow this,” she announced frostily.
The carriage swayed wildly as they turned a corner. Marcus tightened his hold, grinning even wider. “I’m not sure you have a choice.”
“My bonnet ribbons are choking me.”
He doubted that the scrap of starched lace and straw that made up her bonnet could weigh much. Still, it was not something he really wanted her thinking about. What he really wanted, he decided, was for Honoria Baker-Sneed to think about
him
for a moment. Him and no one and nothing else.
That decided it. “Let me help you.” He tucked one arm tightly about her shoulders and freed one of his hands so he could remove her offending bonnet. It came off without fuss, her rich chestnut hair gleaming in the sunlight that flickered from beneath the curtain. “There.” He tossed the bonnet to the empty seat. “That is much better.” He smoothed the hair from her forehead. Silky soft, the long strands glided beneath his fingers.
She shook her head impatiently, dislodging his fingers. “Oh, stop that!” she snapped. “That was my new bonnet!” “It still is. I merely put it on the opposite seat.”
“You
threw
it on the opposite seat.” He glanced at it. It had landed on one side and did look rather bent. He shrugged. “I’ll get you another.” Now there was a rather enjoyable thought, going bonnet shopping with the irrepressible Honoria Baker-Sneed. He imagined seeing her trying on an assortment of bonnets, each more frivolous than the last as they revealed and then concealed that intriguing streak of white.
He touched her hair again, running his fingers through her thick curls, loosening the pins and scattering them to the carriage floor. It was intoxicating, being this close to her. She had a strange effect on him, imbuing him with vigor and lassitude at the same time. He wanted to seduce her, but not quickly. Rather, he wanted to slowly undress her, slowly sinner awake and bring her to the brink of passion, and then let the fires rage unchecked, devouring them both.
“Lord Treymount, I don’t wish to— How can you— We shouldn’t—Oh blast it all!”
He dropped his gaze from her hair to her eyes. Her face was thoroughly flushed, her eyes sparkling. “Yes, my love?”
“This is very improper. I am surprised at you.”
There was a sulky tone to her voice that, instead of recalling him to his senses, merely made him want to kiss her red lips. “Yes,” he heard himself agreeing. “It is very improper. And I am rather surprised at myself.” He smoothed a particularly fat curl from her cheek. The silky texture sent a wave of heat through him. “This streak of white at your brow… where—”
“I was born with it.” Her mouth turned down at the corners. “Treymount, what are you doing? If you think to embarrass me into giving you the ring, it will not work.”
“Embarrass? Is this embarrassing you?”
Her cheeks were bright with color, her eyes sparkling mutinously. “No.”
“Then why should I release you?” He placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face to his. “Do you really wish me to let you go?”
A flicker of something flashed through her eyes before her lashes dropped to her cheeks. Then softly, ever so softly, she said, “Please.”
She just said the one word, low and soft. But in an instant Marcus knew he was bested. Damn, damn, damn. He’d really enjoyed holding her. Sighing a little, he lifted her to the seat opposite, beside her bonnet. “Very well, but you owe me.”
“Owe you? You, sir, owe
me‘’
She smoothed her skirts, her hands moving jerkily over her knees, then she picked up her bonnet and returned it ”to her head with such force that he almost winced to think of the damage she was inflicting to her hapless curls.
He regarded her for a moment. She was flustered, and flushed, and not nearly as in possession of herself as she had been at the museum. It was, he decided, a very good thing. Since she would not allow him to kiss her again, perhaps now was the time to talk about the ring. A flustered Diana might not be able to maintain her rigid dignity as well as the frosty Diana. “Miss Baker-Sneed, shall we discuss the ring?”