So, she must now do all in her power to bring the man up to scratch. Only she didn’t have the slightest idea how. She’d never learned the art of flirtation and she didn’t know how to give the man the hint that she would be open to his advances without seeming fast.
On top of all this was the fact that ... oh dear, but she really didn’t feel any enthusiasm for the idea at all. Oh, he was a good man, that was obvious. He would never beat her or humiliate her by having many mistresses, or gamble a fortune away at the tables. He would not forget her birthday or refuse her demand to help Crecy. All of these things she could feel reasonably certain of.
She was also extremely certain that he would never make her heart thud in her chest, he would never fall passionately in love with her, nor she with him. She would never feel that strange aching desperation to touch him, or ever believe she might actually go mad if she didn’t.
Unbidden, the memory of the marquess stripped to the waist, his powerful body sweat-dampened and taut, came to mind. She felt the blush creep over her, her skin feeling suddenly as though it was ill fitting, uncomfortable, and over-sensitive. She shifted in her seat, a restless sensation surging through her bones, and as though drawn by some unseen force, she looked along the table. For a moment, she had the ridiculous idea that he had felt her desire for him flame, all the way from her position halfway along the vast table, for he turned to her at the exact same moment. Their eyes met and her skin grew hotter still, the desire to get to her feet and drag him from the room so overwhelming that she clenched her fists beneath the table.
Worse than all of that, though ... he knew.
Somehow, he knew just what she was thinking. He lifted his glass, his eyes never leaving her as he sipped and then licked his lips. Her eyes fell to that full, sensuous mouth and she felt her breath catch as she saw his tongue sweep over his lower lip. Good God, what was wrong with her?
Look away.
Look away this instant!
But it was hopeless; she could not, even though her breathing was coming faster, and surely she was the colour of the lobster dish she had just been served?
And then he smirked.
It was such a smug, arrogant expression that her temper rose, thankfully breaking the spell he seemed to have over her. With fury she scowled at him, lifted her chin and looked resolutely away.
***
Eddie chuckled at the furious indignation in Miss Holbrook’s eyes. He had no doubt whatsoever that if looks could kill, he’d be lying stone cold on the rug beneath his feet. He also had no doubt at all that he had been right about the woman: she wanted him so badly that she could hardly see straight. The thought was amusing, and in truth, it bolstered an ego that had taken some severe knocks of late.
He knew that he had been an accomplished ladies’ man before the war had damaged him so. He’d been charming and witty and, if the memories that were returning to him were accurate, a great deal of fun to be with. But that man was dead. He’d died at Waterloo, just as everyone had believed. The fact that he inhabited the same body and blood and bones made no difference. He wasn’t the same. And this new, glowering, ill-tempered marquess with few social graces was not the kind of man that most women would dare approach.
He’d met some of his old lovers at the various society gatherings he’d forced himself to go to, but had found no stirring of desire for them, simply no interest at all, in fact, and he could see nothing but concern and even a little fear in their eyes. Oh, there were some for whom the title was a big enough prize to try and gain his interest, and try hard, but it was an act and nothing more, he was certain. None of them had shown that blatant attraction he saw in the Holbrook woman’s eyes. None of them had set fire to his blood either.
Hell and damnation.
Why did the only woman he’d felt anything physical for since the war ended have to be a penniless, virginal fortune-hunter on the catch for a husband? Not to mention, a woman who made him furious every time she opened her bloody mouth?
He shifted in his seat to try and ease the tightness in his small clothes, and turned his attention to the conversation that had been going on without his help for the past hour at least. Blah, blah, blah. Oh God, when did these people get so damned boring?
He was about to force his brain into making an intelligent comment, out loud, when the wretched woman glanced his way again.
He was certain she didn’t want to look at him any more than he wanted to look at her, but there was some unfathomable tension between them. As though there was some invisible thread that had pulled taut between them, so that each was irresistibly aware of the other’s thoughts and desires.
It was intriguing and dangerous, and damned inconvenient.
Despite his determination that he should not only give her no encouragement, but do his level best to avoid her, he felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards with genuine amusement. It wasn’t a smirk this time either, it was a smile, and a proper smile at that. The shape and feel of it was so unfamiliar to him that his face felt rather odd, distorted somehow by the novelty.
He watched her reaction to it with interest, the slight widening of her eyes and the parting of which, he now realised, was a rather full and lush mouth. She stared at him for a moment before returning the expression, hesitant and unsure, perhaps sensing a trick, but it was there, alright.
A strange feeling ran over his skin, something as foreign and untried as the smile, but he neither knew nor cared what it signified. He didn’t know whether he wanted to drag the blasted woman to his room and give her everything she so clearly wanted from him, or run a mile in the other direction.
Suddenly furious with himself, and her, for allowing the chit to ruffle him, he allowed his features to return to their reassuringly familiar forbidding aspect, and turned abruptly away.
Chapter 9
“Wherein Crecy shocks her admirers, and Belle goes one better.”
The next two days followed a similar theme - well, apart from that disturbing interlude with the marquess. Thankfully, he’d been absent on the next night, and so taciturn and withdrawn on the one after, that he may as well have been.
Belle had done her level best to put the odious man from her mind, but back he would come in her unguarded moments, all bare-chested magnificence and infuriating smirks. But he had smiled at her.
That smile had been a revelation, like angry, turbulent clouds had parted in the middle of a violent storm, and a summer sky been revealed beneath. It had done something to her, that smile. Though she couldn’t say what. But it had sneaked under her skin and behind her ribs and settled somewhere inside to be taken out like a secret letter and held to herself in private. That smile had been for her and her alone, and for just a moment, it had been heart-stopping and perfect and ... glorious. And then the blasted man had dropped it like a mask and the scowl had returned, leaving her unsettled and confused and, yes, pretty darn annoyed with him, actually.