He paced toward her, took her hand, and bent over it. For a moment, his bowed head obscured their hands, but she felt the brush—warm and intimate—of his lips on her knuckles.
She gasped. “You’re supposed to kiss the air above the lady’s knuckles.”
He raised his head, still bowed over her hand, the position bringing his face much closer to hers. She could see tiny shards of gold in his brown eyes. “Isn’t this a lesson in flirtation?”
“Yes, but—”
He straightened to his full height. “Then it seems to me that a real kiss is more to the point than a pretend one.”
Only now did she see the shadow of a smile lurking at the back of his eyes.
Her own eyes narrowed as she attempted to withdraw her hand from his. His grip remained firm.
“Mr. Makepeace.”
He opened his hand, but only slightly, so that as she withdrew her hand, his fingers seemed to stroke across her palm.
“Perhaps you have no need of instruction after all,” she muttered.
“Oh, but I do, I assure you.” He resumed his seat across from her. “How many lovers have you had?”
She frowned at him, genuinely shocked. “You can’t ask that.”
“You already did of me,” he reminded her, unperturbed.
“I certainly didn’t use the word lovers,” she retorted.
“But the meaning was the same, was it not?”
“Perhaps.” Of course the meaning had been the same. She pursed her lips.
“I apologize. I wasn’t aware your sensibilities were so delicate.”
The wretched man was laughing at her! Oh, his expression was serious enough, but she could tell by the way he watched her that he meant to provoke.
Isabel settled back against the settee cushions and tilted her head. “Three.”
His chin jerked—very faintly, but she’d seen it. She’d surprised him.
Hiding a smile, she waved a hand airily. “Four, if one counts my husband, but I don’t think husbands should be counted as lovers, do you?”
His eyelids half lowered. “I would not know. Did you take lovers when you were married?”
“No.” She made a considering moue. “Rather bourgeois of me, I know, but there it is. I never strayed from my marriage vows.”
“Did he?”
She looked away. “I don’t like these questions.”
“I’m sorry. I did not mean to hurt you.” His voice was deep and sincere.
“You haven’t.” Desperately she fought to regain her social face. She tilted her chin defiantly, gazing at him frankly.
The corner of his lips curved just a bit. “Then you took your lovers after your husband’s death?”
How had she let him lead her into this dangerous conversational territory? Yet now that she was here, she wouldn’t back down. “Yes. I waited a decent amount of time after dear Edmund was buried, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
She would’ve sworn he would be disapproving of a lady taking lovers, but she couldn’t detect disapproval in his tone. He folded his hands in his lap, his manner as relaxed as if they discussed the price of fresh oysters.
“Do you have a lover now?”
What would it be like to teach such a man the arts of the bedroom?
The whispered thought startled her. He wasn’t of her milieu, wasn’t the type of man she would usually consider taking as a lover. She liked sophisticates. Men who were quick with an amusing witticism. Men who knew how to entertain, perhaps surprise in the bedroom, but who were discreet—even distant—out of it. Men who didn’t take an affaire d’amour with any seriousness.
Her heartbeat quickened. “No.” How far was he willing to take this? She leaned forward, her manner seductive. “Are you interested in the position?”
If she’d hoped to make him back down, she was sadly disappointed. His lips quirked, drawing her eyes to that fuller upper lip. Her brows knit in thought.
“I’m interested in many things,” he said, his deep voice precise and unhurried, “but I cannot believe you offer me the position in earnest, my lady. After all, I have already confessed my lack of credentials.”
Any other man would’ve looked abashed to remind her of his inexperience. Mr. Makepeace, in contrast, seemed perfectly complacent, even self-assured. Somehow she knew he would take a love affair very seriously indeed. Once that pinpoint focus was engaged, he would throw himself body and soul into the liaison. Into the woman he decided to take as a lover.
A shiver ran through her at the thought. To be the object of such ferocious regard was an alluring prospect, but it also gave her pause.
Caution, her intellect whispered. Don’t engage this man without proper consideration. He won’t be as easily cast aside as the sophisticates of London society.
Isabel slowly sat back again, regarding her pupil. “Then we’ll need to work on your social skills, won’t we?” She smiled as she dumped her cooled tea and poured herself another dish. “Shall we practice dinner conversation?”
He nodded, and if she saw disappointment in his eyes, she ignored it. She might like to flirt and tease, but she wasn’t without common sense after all.
“I am at your command,” he drawled.
WINTER WATCHED AS Lady Beckinhall took his teacup, dumped the contents, and poured him a fresh cup. Somehow he’d scared her away from their risqué conversation, and now she was set on talking about the weather or some other boring topic.
The strange thing was that he felt a twinge of disappointment. He’d liked sparring with her. Liked even more the small glimpse under the social mask she wore. She’d been truly hurt by her husband, and while he didn’t want to remind her of sad memories, he did want to see again the naked face she’d shown. The true Lady Beckinhall.
She looked at him now, the role of hostess firmly in place. “Have you seen the new opera at the Royal Playhouse?”
“No.” He took a sip of tea, watching her. “I’ve never attended an opera.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly in, if he weren’t mistaken, irritation. “A play, then?”
He silently shook his head.
“A musicale? The fair?”
He merely looked at her and waited.
She hadn’t much patience, his Lady Beckinhall. “I declare you’re the most boring man I’ve ever met, Mr. Makepeace. You must do something besides constantly toil at the home.”
He felt the corner of his mouth curve.