"You"--he extended both hands in her direction, vaguely cupped--"had breasts. I"--he slapped his palms to his chest--"had erections."
She blinked. "What?"
Oh, for the love of God. "When a man is aroused, his--"
Thankfully, she cut him off with a gesture. "I understand how the anatomy works. I just can't believe I did that to you."
Always.
She'd always done that to him. Hell, she was doing it to him now. Between the brandy, their state of undress, and the enticing shadows the firelight cast below her ear and between her breasts . . .
Desire gripped him. Hard.
He was losing his patience for coy banter.
"Suffice it to say," he said, "beauty and intelligence are not so hard to come by in one person. And it's been many years since I noted both qualities in you. So again, I ask--how can you justify this scurrilous pamphlet? What did I miss out on?"
She looked as though she would speak. And Dash knew what she wanted to say.
At least, he knew what he wanted her to say.
Come along, you evasive minx. Out with it.
In the face of her silence, he had no choice but to call her bluff. He picked up the quill and dipped it. "A lawsuit it is."
My heart, Nora wanted to shout. You missed out on my heart.
Just watching him scratching away at the paper, she was transported back to their youth. She'd passed many hours peering around her brother's bowed head to watch Dash scrawling on his slate. He wrote so awkwardly, with his left hand all curled up. Unlike most children, he hadn't been forced to use his right. At seven years old, he was already an orphaned baron. Who could force him to do anything?
Dash's left-handedness had dictated their seating arrangement. He sat to the left of Andrew. Nora sat to the right. Otherwise, they all bumped elbows.
How many times had she had sat at that table, daydreaming about Dash's strong hands or dark eyelashes, and wishing there was no Andrew between them?
Then came that dreadful day when there wasn't any Andrew between them, and she'd rued her every wish.
Nora wasn't the superstitious sort. She knew her brother's death wasn't her fault. It wasn't anybody's fault, not even the horse's.
Accidents happened.
But after he died, the lessons stopped. It seemed the end of everything for Nora, too. She'd not only lost her brother, but Dash's company--and now she would lose the chance to further her learning. Her father had humored her desire to join while he instructed the boys, but he would see no reason to educate Nora on her own.
She would never forget the day when Andrew was a fortnight in the ground, Dash came to call. She hurried down the stairs to find him standing in the entrance hall, his lesson books tucked under one arm.
He'd bowed and addressed her father. Sir, shall we continue as before?
They'd proceeded to her father's study, taken seats in their usual chairs. Dash on the left. Nora on the right, and that horrible, empty space between them. And somehow they'd struggled to continue. Not only with lessons in mathematics and Greek, but with life.
While her father chalked an example on the wall-mounted slate, Dash reached beneath the table, bridging that empty gap, and took Nora's hand.
Oh, she'd been infatuated with him for years.
In that moment, infatuation had become love.
They worked that way for hours. Fingers twined beneath the table in secret whilst they continued writing with their favored hands. And for every minute that ticked away on the clock, Nora's heart was another mile gone.
There was no undoing it. She saw that now.
Her heart was his, and it always would be.
But she was terrified to tell him so. What if he'd known her heart already, too--just as he'd known her mind and her body--and yet he'd still chosen to walk away?
"Dash," she whispered. "You missed . . ."
He threw down the quill. "What did I miss, Nora. What?"
Faced with his impatient, glowering expression, she lost her nerve. The stakes were too high. If he rejected her again, she didn't know how she'd bear it.
But there he was, waiting on her answer.
Something wild and stupid took hold of her. Pride, she supposed.
"Only the greatest pleasure of your life." She let the quilt fall from her shoulders, tossed her hair, and thrust out her chest. "We would have been magnificent lovers."
CHAPTER SIX
For the third time, Pauline rearranged sweets on the plate before her. Spice biscuits, seedcake, small iced petit fours.
She sat back to look at them and consider the symmetry of her display. Then she picked one up and stuffed it in her mouth.
"Oh, don't!" Charlotte Highwood cried. "There'll be none for tomorrow."
"There are four more trays in the kitchen," Pauline muttered through a mouthful of cake. "But the event will likely be canceled anyway."
"Don't worry," Kate said. "All four of our men out there searching for her. They can't fail."
Charlotte popped a biscuit into her mouth. "Remember, one of those four men is Colin."
"Colin can be surprisingly resourceful at times," her sister Minerva replied, wife of the troublemaking viscount in question.
"It just feels strange that we're all sitting here eating cakes," said Susanna Bramwell, Lady Rycliff, helping herself to the sweets. "Feminine empowerment is the reason I began inviting ladies to Spindle Cove. It's the reason you've invited Miss Browning to speak. And here we are, waiting for the men to save the day."
"Men do want to feel needed from time to time," Kate said.
"Speaking of men feeling needed"--Minerva paused in the act of bringing a seedcake to her lips--"did any of your husbands seem oddly . . . um . . . determined before they left this evening?"
"Now that you mention it," Susanna replied slowly, "Bram did seem rather focused on a goal."
She, Minerva, and Kate exchanged knowing glances.
"What?" Charlotte asked. "What is it?"
Declining to answer, the three married ladies each bit into a teacake.
Pauline couldn't help but feel envious of their blushes. Griff had been gone for what felt like ages, and they hadn't had any sort of proper reunion. She felt guilty for the way they'd parted. Right now, they could have been rolling in bed, and instead he was somewhere out in the cold.
Mrs. Highwood roused herself from a nearby table and joined them, knocking a third teacake out of Charlotte's hand with her fan. "Do stop stuffing your face, Charlotte."
"But Pauline is worried. We're consoling her--and ourselves." Charlotte frowned at her mother. "And why do you have a fan, anyhow? It's snowing outside."
"My nerves know no season." Mrs. Highwood fanned with vigor. "I, for one, am happy if Miss Browning never arrives. It's shocking. Teaching young ladies that they needn't marry to have value? Rejecting the opinions of gentlemen? Appalling. If she did arrive, Charlotte, you would not be permitted to attend."
Pauline watched Minerva and Charlotte exchange an exasperated glance. The Highwood sisters were no stranger to their mother's nerves, nor her loud opinions on marriage. One would think having her eldest two daughters happily wed would allow the matron to relax about Charlotte's prospects.
On the contrary, Mrs. Highwood seemed to have redoubled her determination.
"Don't look to this group for advice, Charlotte," the older woman said. "Or if you must look to them, heed their example, not their words. They know the importance of an advantageous match." With her folded fan, she gestured to Susanna, Minerva, and Pauline in turns. "Married to an earl, viscount, and duke."
"But we married for love, Mrs. Highwood, not advantage," Susanna said.
Kate raised her hand. "And I chose a soldier when I might have married a marquess."
"More to the point, your own eldest daughter married a blacksmith!" Charlotte cried.
"Diana married an artisan," her mother corrected. "And don't remind me." She flicked open her fan and worked it furiously.
"So help me, Charlotte. If you run away with a butcher before you even have your first season . . ."
"I've no intention of running away with a butcher. Nor a baker, nor a candlestick maker. Unlike my sisters, I enjoy dancing, and I'm fond of parties. I'm heartily looking forward to my season."
"Thank heaven. I knew I'd given birth to one daughter with sense."
"In fact," Charlotte continued, "I hope to have at least five seasons in Town before I even think of settling down."
With a dramatic moan, Mrs. Highwood sank into a chair and reached for a cake.
"Magnificent," Dash drawled. "We would have been magnificent lovers. This is your argument."
"Yes."
"You, an untried, gently bred virgin, know how to please a man. Better than any merry widow or courtesan."
A shiver went through her. Nora started to worry about whether he meant to call her bluff--and how she meant to respond, if he did.
Nevertheless, she couldn't back down.
"I don't care how many lovers you've taken, nor how experienced they were." She held up her index finger. "I have more passion in one fingertip than they have in their whole bodies."
He propped an elbow on the table. A smile played at the corners of his lips. "Why, Elinora Jane Browning. What on earth have you been doing with that fingertip?"
"Wouldn't you like to know." She kept her tone saucy, trying not to betray her nerves.
"I think I would, yes."
His gaze made a slow journey up her body, lingering on the swell of her breasts where they overflowed her corset. Her pulse raced, and her breathing quickened.
How did he do that? He didn't even need to touch her. He didn't even have to speak. Just a sweep of those intent eyes, and her nipples drew to tight points, chafing against the linen of her shift.
He noticed.
"It's cold in here," she said, inanely.
"Well," he replied. "We can't have that."
Dash rose from the table and walked around it, coming to stand before her. The entire journey took three paces, but for Nora it was an eternity. Tension built between them. Her nipples were aching now, and a dull pulse throbbed at the juncture of her thighs.
Slowly, deliberately, he retrieved the quilt from where she'd tossed it aside, shook it out, and then draped it around her.
"There." He tucked the blanket about her shoulders. "Better?"
She didn't know how to answer. Her senses were muddled by the scents of brandy and leather and musk. She couldn't stop staring at the gaping open collar of his shirt, and the intriguing whorls of dark hair it framed.
"Nora." His voice was husky. Intimate. "If you think the idea of seducing you never crossed my mind, I assure you--you're wrong. Quite wrong."
"Then what stopped you?"
He took a step backward, breaking her trance. "My good breeding, of course."
"Your good breeding. Please. What part of your good breeding was on display when we were in London?"
His mouth pulled to the side. "Yes, London. That was badly done of me, I'll admit."
"Badly done," Nora parroted, mimicking his deep voice. "You promised my father you would look after me in Town. I waited three weeks at my aunt's in Berkeley Square before you even deigned to call. And when you did, you appeared in her parlor unshaven and reeking of brandy. Worse, French perfume. But I forgave you everything because you were there, at last, and you invited me to a night at the theater with your friends."
He rubbed a hand over his face.
"Finally, I thought. Here is the London season I dreamed about. You must know I never much cared for balls or dancing. I longed for culture. Experience. The opera, exhibitions, salons. I wanted to be a part of an exciting new circle of society, and you were my only way in. I spent four hours readying myself for that night. My best silk. New gloves. Every lock of hair in place." She laughed at herself, remembering. "I so was worried about embarrassing you. I addressed my reflection in the mirror in German, French, Italian. I read the week's newspapers, twice. And then . . ."
"And then I took you to the theater. Just as I'd promised."
"Oh, yes. You did. We shared a box with your wastrel Oxford friends and their lightskirts. They rudely laughed and chattered through the entire first and second acts. You ignored me. I watched a woman in scarlet wedge a wine flute in her decolletage. And then I watched you drink from it."
"I was a jackass that night. I know it."
"I know you know it. You did it all on purpose, in public, in a calculated fashion, clearly with the aim of disappointing me. Wounding me. What I want to know is why."
"You don't already know why? You, who claim to know me better than I know myself?"
"I want to hear you say it."
Dash was silent.
Her quiet fury only built. "My father made excuses for you, you know. When I returned home still weeping and humiliated, he tried to tell me you were hard-hit by Andrew's death. You poor young man, how you must be grieving."
"He was correct. I was grieving."
"My mother consoled me, too. All men your age needed to sow a few wild oats, she said."
"And your mother was right, as well. I was a man of two-and-twenty, wealthy, with normal appetites and few checks on my behavior."
"You were a coward," she bit out.
He flinched.
"You were a coward. You knew I had hopes. Hopes that were shared by my family. Rather than let me down gently, privately--as basic respect might have demanded--you decided to make me a spectacle instead. To humiliate me publicly. To make me a fool."
"I was callow, I readily admit. Immature. So were you. You had unrealistic, girlish expectations. I know how the female imagination works, leaping from attraction to matrimony in a heartbeat. In your mind, you were probably naming our children and choosing new carpets for Westfield Chase. Embroidering 'Lady Dashwood' on your trousseau."
"You're wrong," she hedged. About some of it. "I detest embroidery."
Also, she'd only chosen girl baby names. She'd been planning to let him name the boys.
"I did have respect for your family," he said. "And for you. A great deal more respect, I daresay, than you have shown me."
"You had respect for me? Oh, that is rich. That display in London aside, when you accepted the position with Sir Bertram, you never even bid me farewell."
"I paid a call at Greenwillow."
"And you spoke to my father, yes. I heard you downstairs."
"You were out, I assumed."
"You knew I was there. I came hurrying down to greet you. I told myself I should have more pride, but I couldn't help it. And yet I was too late. You were already out the door. I stood there in the entryway, watching you all the way down the lane. You never once looked back."
Her eyes burned. She forced herself to take a deep, slow breath. Long ago, she'd vowed to herself--she would not shed another tear for him, ever again.
"I used to daydream," she said. "About what would have happened if I'd rushed after you that day, caught up to you in the lane . . . I could have made you stay. I could have changed your mind."
"Nora." He exhaled her name as a weary sigh. "You could not have made me stay."
"You can't know that."
He was silent for a long moment. "Very well, then. Have your chance now."
"What?"
"Whatever it was you would have said or done. Let's hear it now. You said you played the scene again and again in your mind."
"Well, if we're going to play the scene," she said, "you must do your part. You were leaving."
"Fine." He walked to the door and lifted the wooden latch. "Here I am, leaving Greenwillow Hall."
He opened the door. A blast of cold invaded the small cottage, bracing and fierce.
"This is your chance, Nora. Convince me. Give me a reason I should stay."
With one last, daring look at her--he left.
She went to the open door, watching him walk away from her for the second time in her life.
Making big footprints in the drifting, swirling snow.
Not looking back.
"Far enough?" he asked, not turning.
"Further," she called to him. "Keep going."
His figure grew smaller and fainter as he stomped into the snowy night.
For a moment, Nora contemplated slamming the door and barring it. She didn't need to prove herself to him. Not anymore.
She stood there, watching. He never slowed. Never once looked over his shoulder. As though he would desert all over again. Growing smaller and smaller, melting into the dark night.
Let him go, she told herself.
But something in her heart twinged and snapped. Like a strand of India rubber pulled to its limits, then released. It stung. It pulled her off balance. And before she knew what she was doing--
"Wait."
She gathered the hem of her chemise, lifting it to her ankles, and charged out into the snow, calling his name over the howling wind.
"Dash! Dash, wait."
By the time, she caught up to him, she was breathless. She put her hands on his shoulders--those broad, strong shoulders--to turn him toward her.
"Wait. Don't go. Come back inside." She slid her arms around his neck. "Stay with me."
And then she kissed him.
As many times as she'd thought of this moment . . . dreamed, schemed, choreographed, imagined how she would persuade him to stay . . . none of it mattered. Her actions were entirely instinctual, driven by impulses and needs deep inside her.
They came from the heart.
She pressed her lips to his, and a touch of frost between them quickly melted to fire. Delicious, intoxicating, brandy-flavored warmth. She wanted more. It didn't even concern her that he was standing as still as if he were frozen, not responding. She'd wanted to touch him for so long, and now her hands were on the strong column of his bared neck, her fingers twining in his dark, unruly hair. She tasted his lips, tilting her head to the side and stretching to make herself taller. Pressing light kisses to his mouth, again and again.
"Stay," she whispered between kisses. "Stay with me."
The freezing wind caught the hem of her chemise and tugged it, snarling the tissue-thin fabric about her ankles. She shivered and pressed the full length of her body into his enticing masculine warmth. He was warmer than any fire. As though he'd soaked up the sun of tropical shores and taken it into him, saved it for just this moment--so that he might give it back to her on this cold, snowy English night.
She pulled back from the kiss and stared up at him. The faint light from the hut illuminated half his face. He was half light, half darkness. She wanted him for all of it. Always had.