suspected she was beginning to hate him.
Hate, he told himself, was better than indifference. And she was most decidedly seeing him now. Tension banded his stomach muscles. He had the peculiar sensation he was drawing back a bow throughout this conversation, and now it quivered taut in his fingers.
“But , Miss Brightly…I could tell you things about all of these other gentlemen that would facilitate your quest for a very respectable match. I could…oh, help you narrow your choices. Focus your attentions. Deploy your assets most effectively, if you will, in order to help you achieve your aim.”
She turned her head back quickly toward him. Her gaze was flinty with cynicism.
“And you’ll do all of this out of the goodness of your…heart…Mr. Redmond?”
She enunciated the word “heart” doubtfully. Pointedly calling into question whether or not he possessed one.
He appreciated this with a nod and a pitched brow.
“I seldom do things simply out of the goodness of my heart. For where is the logic in that? I am a man of logic, of purpose, of planning, of objective. I suspect you of all people understand that, Miss Brightly.”
She was catching on; cynicism hardened her soft features. “I see. And what do you require in exchange for your valuable information, Mr. Redmond?”
Tension snapped; the arrow flew.
“A kiss.”
Chapter 4
W ell, then. Judging from how still Miles Redmond had gone, he’d shocked himself as thoroughly as he’d shocked her.
But he didn’t unsay the words, or apologize. He watched her.
Cynthia took the measure of her tormentor: broad-shouldered and formidably framed; not lean like his brother Lyon, but not awkward with his size, either. His hands were large; his fingers long and quiet against his thighs. Most men, she’d learned, betrayed internal preoccupation with fidgets, by fingering a coat button or drumming fingers against their thighs even as they mouthed words meant to charm her. This man was still, but not unnaturally so. It was the stillness born of focus. She was his entire focus. His attention was enveloping. It created a world of the two of them.
And then there were the spectacles, which she often found absurd on men. But the dark eyes behind his spectacles had that quality unique to doorways into mysterious darkened rooms: they beckoned, they disguised; they invited and unsettled. His face was long and his nose was… significant was unfortunately the word that seemed most apt—and his jaw a join of lines so elegantly articulated it could have been drawn with a protractor. Hair dark and fine and longer than it ought to be dropped softly down over a brow high enough to contain what surely must be his multitude of tremendously important thoughts.
She’d gone sarcastic in her thoughts out of self-defense.
But his mouth…It was a sensual tourist in that face: firm, wide, finely drawn. Like his eyes, it implied things. Specifically, it implied Miles Redmond skillfully used it for purposes besides tasting food and tormenting his guests. She thought about native women and debauchery.
He interrupted her scrutiny. “Am I correct in assuming that you have been kissed before, Miss Brightly?”
There went the mouth again: tormenting. Yet no footman extending a platter of sweetmeats had ever sounded more blandly deferential.
This must be why she never spoke to men who wore spectacles, she thought darkly. Some instinct for self-preservation. For this… scientist— she turned the word into a pejorative in her mind—this wealthy, indolent heir —this last word she faltered over, hesitating to turn it into a pejorative, as it had been one of her favorite words to date—had sniffed out unflattering truths about her.
She halfadmired it. There was something heady, a peculiar relief , in being understood.
But then she thought: if he can see it, who else can see it?
She turned her head away briefly from his dark-eyed, windowed gaze. An attempt to rally her composure.
Hate, he told himself, was better than indifference. And she was most decidedly seeing him now. Tension banded his stomach muscles. He had the peculiar sensation he was drawing back a bow throughout this conversation, and now it quivered taut in his fingers.
“But , Miss Brightly…I could tell you things about all of these other gentlemen that would facilitate your quest for a very respectable match. I could…oh, help you narrow your choices. Focus your attentions. Deploy your assets most effectively, if you will, in order to help you achieve your aim.”
She turned her head back quickly toward him. Her gaze was flinty with cynicism.
“And you’ll do all of this out of the goodness of your…heart…Mr. Redmond?”
She enunciated the word “heart” doubtfully. Pointedly calling into question whether or not he possessed one.
He appreciated this with a nod and a pitched brow.
“I seldom do things simply out of the goodness of my heart. For where is the logic in that? I am a man of logic, of purpose, of planning, of objective. I suspect you of all people understand that, Miss Brightly.”
She was catching on; cynicism hardened her soft features. “I see. And what do you require in exchange for your valuable information, Mr. Redmond?”
Tension snapped; the arrow flew.
“A kiss.”
Chapter 4
W ell, then. Judging from how still Miles Redmond had gone, he’d shocked himself as thoroughly as he’d shocked her.
But he didn’t unsay the words, or apologize. He watched her.
Cynthia took the measure of her tormentor: broad-shouldered and formidably framed; not lean like his brother Lyon, but not awkward with his size, either. His hands were large; his fingers long and quiet against his thighs. Most men, she’d learned, betrayed internal preoccupation with fidgets, by fingering a coat button or drumming fingers against their thighs even as they mouthed words meant to charm her. This man was still, but not unnaturally so. It was the stillness born of focus. She was his entire focus. His attention was enveloping. It created a world of the two of them.
And then there were the spectacles, which she often found absurd on men. But the dark eyes behind his spectacles had that quality unique to doorways into mysterious darkened rooms: they beckoned, they disguised; they invited and unsettled. His face was long and his nose was… significant was unfortunately the word that seemed most apt—and his jaw a join of lines so elegantly articulated it could have been drawn with a protractor. Hair dark and fine and longer than it ought to be dropped softly down over a brow high enough to contain what surely must be his multitude of tremendously important thoughts.
She’d gone sarcastic in her thoughts out of self-defense.
But his mouth…It was a sensual tourist in that face: firm, wide, finely drawn. Like his eyes, it implied things. Specifically, it implied Miles Redmond skillfully used it for purposes besides tasting food and tormenting his guests. She thought about native women and debauchery.
He interrupted her scrutiny. “Am I correct in assuming that you have been kissed before, Miss Brightly?”
There went the mouth again: tormenting. Yet no footman extending a platter of sweetmeats had ever sounded more blandly deferential.
This must be why she never spoke to men who wore spectacles, she thought darkly. Some instinct for self-preservation. For this… scientist— she turned the word into a pejorative in her mind—this wealthy, indolent heir —this last word she faltered over, hesitating to turn it into a pejorative, as it had been one of her favorite words to date—had sniffed out unflattering truths about her.
She halfadmired it. There was something heady, a peculiar relief , in being understood.
But then she thought: if he can see it, who else can see it?
She turned her head away briefly from his dark-eyed, windowed gaze. An attempt to rally her composure.
Similar Books
