Page 46 of More or Less a Countess
She continued to draw, and Nick continued to stare stupidly at the page, but he’d lost track of what she was saying the moment she sat down beside him. She was pressed against him, so close, the smooth top of her head level with his shoulder. If he leaned down just a bit, he could rest his cheek against her hair. He could bury his face in those heavy curls, and press his lips to the soft skin of her temples.
No cobwebs today. Her hair was in the same simple knot it had been in yesterday, but today he was close enough to notice the smooth, pale skin of her neck, and once he did, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from it. She smelled crisp and clean, as if she used a soap with a mild vanilla fragrance. In a daze he leaned over her, his lips parting, his head lowering toward hers—
“What do you think, Lord Dare?”
I think you smell delicious.
“Lord Dare?” She turned to look up at him.
Nick jerked his head back. “Ah, what do I think about what?”
She tapped the pencil against the paper. “His knees.” She’d drawn a rough sketch of a skeleton with a very long torso and legs, and now she cocked her head to the side, studying it. “I haven’t got the proportions right, but even so, it’s plain to see all the weight would have fallen in his knees and ankles. We’ll have to have a look at his ankle bones, as well.”
Nick, who was too distracted by the weight in his breeches to string a coherent sentence together, could only stare dumbly at her.
He’d almost kissed her neck.
If she hadn’t turned at that moment, his lips would even now be brushing against that soft, vanilla-scented skin. He’d taste that delectable pulse hidden under her ear, feel it quicken against his tongue. He’d trail his parted lips across her cheek until he reached that tempting pink mouth, then he’d catch her lower lip gently between his teeth.
What would she do if he kissed her? Would she tremble and sigh in his arms, open her lips under his, or—
No. It was far more likely she’d hit him over the head with her sketchbook, then demand he take her home at once. Nick often enjoyed the attentions of a certain kind of lady, but proper young ladies like Miss Somerset tended to give him a wide berth, and for good reason.
Not that Miss Somerset had given him a wide berth—no, after her initial hesitation she seemed more than happy to receive his calls, but even so, she hadn’t ever shown the slightest hint she thought of him in a romanticway. Her gaze didn’t linger on his. She never flirted with him, and she didn’t go out of her way to touch him.
Which was just as well, of course. She wasn’t the sort of lady he fell into fits of passion over, and he didn’t wish to lead her on. She might smell lovely, and have the smoothest, finest skin he’d ever seen, but she was a bluestocking, for God’s sake. Rakes didn’t desire bluestockings, any more than bluestockings desired rakes.
In that sense, at least, they were perfectly matched. After all, more than one happy marriage had been built on a solid foundation of mutual indifference.
“Well, we’ll just have to see when we get there, I suppose.” She closed her sketchbook with a sigh, but she continued to sit contentedly next to him rather than moving back to her seat, as if she wasn’t even aware how close he was, and didn’t notice the length of his thigh pressed against hers.
Which was, again, just as well, because it wasn’t as if it mattered one way or another to him. A rake who regularly enjoyed ladies’ bare thighs wrapped around his hips wasn’t likely to fall into a panting froth of lust over the touch of a single curved thigh buried under five layers of thick wool.
The very thought was absurd.
And yet Nick edged toward the window, away from the disturbing limb that had shattered his peace, and leaned back against the squabs, strangely exhausted for some reason.
He’d just begun to relax again when he felt a small hand slip into his. He looked over at Miss Somerset, startled, and found her gaze on him.
“Thank you for taking me with you today.” She squeezed the tips of his fingers tightly enough he could feel the warmth of her hand through her glove.
Without thinking, and without any hesitation, Nick squeezed back. “It’s my pleasure, Miss Somerset.”
A far greater pleasure than he’d ever dreamed it could be.
Chapter Twelve
It never occurred to Violet to scream, not even when she paused to peer into a tall, cylindrical jar and discovered it contained preserved monkey heads.
“How curious. They look rather peaceful, don’t they?”
Lord Dare tapped his finger against a jar containing a monkey’s skeleton. “That one doesn’t, and I can’t say I blame him.”
He’d stayed close beside her as they made their way through the cavernous main hall, as if he expected her to swoon at any moment and was determined to catch her when it happened. Under normal circumstances it might have annoyed Violet—she wasnotthe type of lady who made a habit of swooning—but, well…shehadswooned after the footpad attacked her, and Lord Darehadbeen obliged to carry her to his carriage, so she could hardly complain.
To be fair, most proper ladieswouldswoon at the sight of a monkey’s head floating in some clear liquid of undetermined origin. But even if that hadn’t been the case, Violet still wouldn’t have complained. In truth, she was having a difficult time keeping herself from throwing her arms around his neck and rising onto her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, right here next to the floating monkey heads.
Her burst of affection had nothing to do with how handsome he was, of course, or the fact that his dark blue coat turned his eyes an even more remarkable shade of silvery-gray. Violet had seen many handsome men before, after all, and she’d never wanted to kiss any ofthem, not even Lord Derrick.
