Page 13 of The Earl and the Reluctant Lady
“What should I do, then, Agnes, swear off love and affection as you have?”
She frowned, her eyes narrowing at him. “I never said I had sworn off affection. I merely said that romantic love seems to be an illusion and one that I do not prescribe to. It doesn’t mean I’m heartless and uncaring.”
They danced the remainder of the waltz in silence and he argued with himself about speaking to her so brazenly. Better she heard it from him and cease talking of such nonsense. He wanted to ask why she’d thought to confront him about such a bold topic. Was she afraid for his soul, as she’d suggested? Perhaps that meant she cared more than she let on.
“Does Christopher only allow you to dance with me this one night?” she asked as he led her back to where she’d been standing before their dance.
“Something like that,” he said. In truth, he only allowed himself this one dance. She was far too tempting to be this close to very often. He flipped her hand over and placed his lips on the bare skin of her wrist directly above her glove. His lips opened against her skin, his tongue making the barest of contacts against her warm flesh.
…
She turned away from him, refusing to watch his tall frame walk back into the crowd. Her heart pounded so furiously in her chest, she glanced down to see if her gown showed the movement. Tingles danced along her skin and she couldn’t determine if she was hot or chilled.
That discussion had not gone as planned. Or rather she hadn’t planned enough perhaps. She hadn’t counted on him arguing with her, defending his behavior. She’d foolishly assumed he’d see the error of his ways once she’d brought it to his attention. Instead, he’d turned the tables on her and set her body on fire.
He was nothing but a flirt and a scoundrel. Christopher had told her, those many years ago when she and Fletcher had first met, that Fletcher was not the right man for her. He was far too worldly. And he’d never settle down and stay faithful to any woman. Over the years, she’d seen the truth of that. He was a shameless flirt, much like her own mother. And like her mother, there were rumors of Fletcher and his seductive prowess. A veritable Don Juan of London’s elite.
Christopher had always been protective of her. He became even more so when she’d explained to him that she had no wish to find a husband. He’d listened intently to her reasoning and agreed to keep the men at bay until such a time that she changed her mind. He was excellent at doing so as he had an uncanny way of popping up around her no matter where she was, glaring at any prospective suitors and frightening them away.
She wasn’t blind to her own appearance, nor was she vain. She was beautiful, in the classical sense. She’d been told that her entire life. Then her body had developed and she’d been gifted a figure men lusted after. Most of them weren’t shy about admitting such a thing. Whether it was the fact that they expected her to become as loose with her affections as her mother was, she was unsure. She knew, though, that she hated the attention. Every minute of it.
There was so much more to her than her pretty face and feminine curves. She was intelligent and creative, and resourceful and kind, and even funny…sometimes. No one had ever bothered to discover those characteristics in her. No one, save Fletcher. But he was a lothario and a wastrel, everything Christopher had described him to be. So, despite the fact that her body betrayed her and never failed to react to his nearness, her mind knew he was not the man for her.
She had decided long ago that love wasn’t for her. For a short while, she’d hoped marriage might be in her future, even if love was not.
Romantic love was, at best, a fleeting illusion—something women used to explain their lustful nature. At worst, a recipe for pain and heartache. As far as she’d ever been able to tell from watching the couples around her, love did not endure even if a union lasted decades. Fletcher was certainly a fitting example of that. Surely, his affairs had a left a string of broken hearts and dashed hopes. At least, that’s what she had always assumed.
But what if she was wrong?
What if, as he maintained, his affairs were all of the flesh and not of the heart at all? What if lust had nothing to do with affection or emotion? She supposed it was reasonable that she wasn’t the only enlightened woman in London, and perhaps others had discovered that love was not an emotion of endurance.
Why did the combined thought of Fletcher and lust make her feel so uncomfortably hot and flustered?
