“Have I shocked you, Miss Finch?”
“I must own, you have. Not with your insinuations of romantic love between women, mind. But I would never have supposed you to be so versed in ancient Greek poetry. That is a shock indeed.”
“I’ll have you know, I attended Cambridge for three terms.”
“Truly?” She stared at him in mock astonishment. “Three whole terms? Now that is impressive.” Her voice was a low, seductive drawl that raised every last hair on his forearm.
At some point in this conversation, she’d ceased arguing with him and begun flirting with him. He doubted she even realized it—any more than she’d realized the danger yesterday, when her tattered frock had been one angry huff away from exposing her pale, supple breast. She lacked the experience to grasp the subtle distinction between antagonism and getting on very well indeed.
So Bram went perfectly still and held her gaze. Stared deeply, directly into her eyes until he made her aware of it, too—this scorching-hot cinder of attraction they juggled back and forth between them.
The air went warm with her effort not to breathe, and her gaze dipped—ever so briefly—to his mouth. The fleeting ghost of a kiss.
Oh yes, he told her with a subtle lift of his brow. That’s what we’re doing here.
She swallowed hard. But she didn’t turn away.
Damn, they could be so good together. Just staring into her eyes, he saw it all. Those iris-hued irises held wit and passion, and . . . depths. Intriguing depths he very much wished to explore. A man could talk to a woman like this all night. At intervals, of course. There would need to be lengthy stretches of gasping and moaning, too.
She’s Sir Lewis Finch’s daughter, his conscience blared in his ear. The problem was, the rest of his body didn’t bloody well care.
She cleared her throat, abruptly breaking the spell she’d cast on him. “Mrs. Lange, won’t you favor us with a poem?”
Bram sat back in his chair. A slender, dark-haired young woman ascended to the dais, clutching a paper. She appeared meek and shrinking.
Until she opened her mouth, that was.
“O, vile betrayer! O, defiler of vows!”
Well. Now she had the room’s attention.
“Hear my rage, like distant thunder. My heart, the beast doth ripped asunder. My cove, the wretched brute did plunder—though not thoroughly.” She glanced up from her paper. “Small wonder.”
Miss Finch leaned toward him and whispered, “Mrs. Lange is estranged from her husband.”
“You don’t say,” he murmured back. He lifted his hands, readying some polite applause.
But the poem didn’t stop there. Oh no. It went on.
For several minutes.
There were many, many verses of epic infamy to be chronicled, it would seem. And the longer the woman read aloud, the higher her voice pitched. Her hands even began to shake.
“All my trust he did betray, when to another he fain would stray. That cruel deed I did repay. With the help of a bronze tea tray. His blood had the temerity . . . to stain the drapes of dimity.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I recall it well, that rusty stain. It is my promise. Never . . . never . . . never—”
The room held its breath.
“—again.”
Silence.
“Brava!” Colin shot to his feet, applauding wildly. “Well done, indeed. Let’s have another.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bram saw Miss Finch’s soft, lush lips twitching at the corners. She was struggling, mightily, not to laugh. And Bram was struggling, mightily, not to cover that mouth with his. To taste the sweetness of her laughter, the tart bite of her clever wit. To claim her, the way she needed to be claimed. In thorough, beastly, medieval fashion.
His only course of action was clear.
He pushed back from the table, screeching the chair legs against the floorboards. As every woman in the place turned to him in mute horror, he rose to his feet and muttered gruffly, “Afternoon.”
Then he walked straight out the door.
Seven
Susanna followed him.
Before she even knew what she was doing, she’d launched from her chair, swept out the door, and followed the impossible man into the lane. To be sure, she wanted him gone. But she couldn’t allow him to leave like that.
“That was rather abrupt.” Lifting her skirts, she hurried after him as he moved to reclaim his horse. “The young ladies were anxious, but they made every effort to welcome you. You might have at least taken proper leave.”
For that matter, he might have accepted a dratted lavender teacake, or dinner last night at Summerfield. He might have refrained from needling her until she blushed and girlishly fidgeted with her hair, in front of all her protégées. He might have taken the trouble to shave.