arms over her chest and willed herself not to do just that.
Lay him low.
But that didn’t stop her from smiling. “Did I?” she asked, all bright and innocent.
“Yes, you did,” he shot back.
“Ah, I remember it now.” She tipped her head and smiled again. “But it seems you have a better recall of the events, since you persist in reminding me of it every time we meet.”
“Of course I remember it. A most humbling moment, if I must say.”
“Oh, isn’t that doing it up a bit?” Harriet said. “You were twelve. I daresay you’ve been made a worse fool of since then—and all on your own, I might add.”
“You would. Still, it’s demmed embarrassing to be flattened by a little girl.”
“Then you shouldn’t have refused my offer.” Harriet smirked, for that thrust was almost as satisfying as her original facer had been.
But the thing about boxing is that one’s opponent can always surprise you.
Roxley leaned closer. “Then ask again, Harry.”
“I shall not,” she vowed, though much to her chagrin she shivered as she held fast to the words that nearly sprang from her lips.
Oh, Roxley, please marry me.
“You know you want to,” he said, all smug and all-knowing. Of course it had been that same condescending air that had gotten him into trouble as a twelve-year-old.
“I’d rather flatten you,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest and holding the words inside her heart with a will that matched his.
“I daresay you would.”
Oh, yes, she would.
Roxley straightened, tugging at the edges of his immaculate coat.
He nodded out at Daphne and Lord Henry. “Care to make a wager as to whether or not Miss Dale and Lord Henry’s dance comes to something?”
“I hope it does,” Harriet said, wishing her words hadn’t come out with that wistful note. A leftover result of having had Roxley so close at hand.
He always did this to her—left her insides a tumbled pile of knots. Of desires unfulfilled . . .
Roxley, damn his hide, edged closer to her, as if he knew exactly how he made her feel. “You have a romantic nature, Harry. Who would have suspected as much?”
“Someone should have a chance at happiness.”
And she wasn’t talking about Daphne and Lord Henry.
H e knew her? He claimed to know who she was. . . .
“Indeed?” Daphne managed, breathless and teetering on the edge of something she’d never imagined before. Feeling a bit off kilter to be at this disadvantage.
“Indeed.” It wasn’t just a word but a pronouncement. A possession. He knew her, and he wanted her.
“How so?” she asked.
“You sparkle, where the rest of the ladies in the room merely shine.”
Daphne, who’d never been flirted with in her life, drew back a little. “I do not sparkle.”
“Your eyes do,” he whispered into her ear.
Did he know what the heat of his breath did to her senses as it teased across her ear, her neck? The way it sent coils of desire through her limbs?
He continued on, “I always knew one day my heart would be stolen by a lady with eyes in just your very shade.”
“You mean blue?”
He shook his head, grinning at her practical response.
“Like larkspur or bluebells?” she offered. Truly, she’d always thought the poets and their flowery comparisons were naught but a pile of foolish flummery, but right now, the notion of being compared to anything romantic, like the attributions regularly laid at the feet of her Dale cousins, was just too tempting a notion.
“Not in the least,” he said, putting a damper down on her moment of wonder. But not for long. “Your eyes are the shade of intelligence, able to pierce a man’s heart with merely a glance. As they have done so to mine.”
He thought her intelligent? Daphne would have found the words to say something, blurt out her name, beg to know if he was indeed her Dishforth, but in that starry moment she spied Lady Essex out of the corner of her eye.
And the old girl didn’t look
Lay him low.
But that didn’t stop her from smiling. “Did I?” she asked, all bright and innocent.
“Yes, you did,” he shot back.
“Ah, I remember it now.” She tipped her head and smiled again. “But it seems you have a better recall of the events, since you persist in reminding me of it every time we meet.”
“Of course I remember it. A most humbling moment, if I must say.”
“Oh, isn’t that doing it up a bit?” Harriet said. “You were twelve. I daresay you’ve been made a worse fool of since then—and all on your own, I might add.”
“You would. Still, it’s demmed embarrassing to be flattened by a little girl.”
“Then you shouldn’t have refused my offer.” Harriet smirked, for that thrust was almost as satisfying as her original facer had been.
But the thing about boxing is that one’s opponent can always surprise you.
Roxley leaned closer. “Then ask again, Harry.”
“I shall not,” she vowed, though much to her chagrin she shivered as she held fast to the words that nearly sprang from her lips.
Oh, Roxley, please marry me.
“You know you want to,” he said, all smug and all-knowing. Of course it had been that same condescending air that had gotten him into trouble as a twelve-year-old.
“I’d rather flatten you,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest and holding the words inside her heart with a will that matched his.
“I daresay you would.”
Oh, yes, she would.
Roxley straightened, tugging at the edges of his immaculate coat.
He nodded out at Daphne and Lord Henry. “Care to make a wager as to whether or not Miss Dale and Lord Henry’s dance comes to something?”
“I hope it does,” Harriet said, wishing her words hadn’t come out with that wistful note. A leftover result of having had Roxley so close at hand.
He always did this to her—left her insides a tumbled pile of knots. Of desires unfulfilled . . .
Roxley, damn his hide, edged closer to her, as if he knew exactly how he made her feel. “You have a romantic nature, Harry. Who would have suspected as much?”
“Someone should have a chance at happiness.”
And she wasn’t talking about Daphne and Lord Henry.
H e knew her? He claimed to know who she was. . . .
“Indeed?” Daphne managed, breathless and teetering on the edge of something she’d never imagined before. Feeling a bit off kilter to be at this disadvantage.
“Indeed.” It wasn’t just a word but a pronouncement. A possession. He knew her, and he wanted her.
“How so?” she asked.
“You sparkle, where the rest of the ladies in the room merely shine.”
Daphne, who’d never been flirted with in her life, drew back a little. “I do not sparkle.”
“Your eyes do,” he whispered into her ear.
Did he know what the heat of his breath did to her senses as it teased across her ear, her neck? The way it sent coils of desire through her limbs?
He continued on, “I always knew one day my heart would be stolen by a lady with eyes in just your very shade.”
“You mean blue?”
He shook his head, grinning at her practical response.
“Like larkspur or bluebells?” she offered. Truly, she’d always thought the poets and their flowery comparisons were naught but a pile of foolish flummery, but right now, the notion of being compared to anything romantic, like the attributions regularly laid at the feet of her Dale cousins, was just too tempting a notion.
“Not in the least,” he said, putting a damper down on her moment of wonder. But not for long. “Your eyes are the shade of intelligence, able to pierce a man’s heart with merely a glance. As they have done so to mine.”
He thought her intelligent? Daphne would have found the words to say something, blurt out her name, beg to know if he was indeed her Dishforth, but in that starry moment she spied Lady Essex out of the corner of her eye.
And the old girl didn’t look
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