The teasing twinkle in his dark eyes proved too much; she smiled and took his hand. "Done."
His fingers closed over hers. The sensation of his warm, calloused skin around hers robbed her of breath. Effervescent fire raced through her veins. Her skin tingled. God in heaven-what was the matter with her?
The marquess held her hand for several heartbeats and showed no sign of wanting to release it. Then he turned her hand over, and his thumb caressed her palm.
Kit pulled her hand away. "You are too forward, sir."
"I am, aren't I?" Again, the roguish smile. "I have been told that it is one of my most endearing qualities."
Kit's smile dwindled as her conscience pricked her. The marquess was flirting with her, and making a concentrated effort to do so. Oh, the banter between them seemed natural enough, but he assumed a familiarity with her that set off warning bells in her head.
"Not to me, my lord," she reproached him. "If this is some sort of lark…"
Bainbridge smothered a sigh. This might be more difficult than he had anticipated. She was a cautious creature; his overt physical lures had not produced the results for which he'd hoped. This was the first widow he'd ever encountered who had not been eager for his touch. Time to adjust his strategy.
"Forgive me," he said with all the contrition at his command. "I did not mean to offend you. If I agree to behave myself, would you still consent to read aloud?"
"Behave yourself?" she asked archly. "Pray excuse my blunt speech, my lord, but I am beginning to doubt if you are interested in poetry at all."
Careful.
He shrugged and spread his hands. "Ah… You have found me out, Mrs. Mallory. I do have an ulterior motive."
Her green eyes narrowed. "And what would that be?"
Bainbridge shot a quick glance in the duke's direction. "My family, unfortunately, possesses much of the arrogance that often accompanies great rank," he murmured. "Truth be told, I think Wexcombe was born looking down that patrician nose of his."
She ducked her head, but not before Bainbridge spied her grin of amusement. "He is a duke, after all. I suppose he is entitled to a certain amount of pride."
"Entitled or not, I am rather ashamed of the way they have treated you this evening. I simply hoped to put you at ease and prove that not all of us have forgotten how to be civil."
"Oh," she replied, her fingers laced in her lap. Clearly, she had not expected him to say that. "And why have you taken this upon yourself, my lord? You do not share their estimate of my character?"
"The duke may be my cousin," he said with a lopsided grin, "but he does not make up my mind for me. My Great-Aunt Josephine-the dowager duchess-obviously holds you in great regard."
"Thank you." The tense set of her shoulders eased. "Might I ask you one other question?"
"As long as it does not involve poetry or philosophy," he chuckled, "for I was an indifferent student at best."
This time she responded to his jest with a genuine smile. "No, it involves neither. I merely wished to know you why you were staring at me."
"Was I staring?" he asked, feigning innocence. He had not put her off her guard, after all. Blast.
"You were," she countered. "And I cannot imagine why."
"Can you not?" Bainbridge willed her to meet his gaze, but she did not oblige him. He had to content himself with the study of her profile. "Surely you realize that you are a very attractive woman, Mrs. Mallory."
She blushed a vivid pink, and he spied the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat, in the soft hollow barely visible above the collar of her dark blue gown. He had told her the truth; she was attractive, in a very out-of-the-ordinary sort of way, and would be even more so if she wore more flattering colors.
No English rose, this woman. Her thick hair, scraped into a ruthlessly tight bun at the back of her head, gleamed a rich tawny gold in the candlelight. A few cinnamon-colored freckles dusted the bridge of her nose and the high-arched planes of her cheekbones. Her jaw was too square and determined for his taste, but her rosy mouth would tempt even a monk to madness. He might actually enjoy this.
"I think, my lord, that it might be more prudent to limit our discussion to poetry." Blushing, her eyes downcast, Mrs. Mallory ran a finger down the cover of the slender volume.
His lips quirked. "Indeed. For, despite my best intentions, I am still a scoundrel."
The duchess finished her performance with a flourish and a final chord, which was greeted with polite applause. She lanced a triumphant smile in Mrs. Mallory's direction, then started to select another piece from her sheaf of music. Bainbridge gripped the arm of his chair. So much for subtlety! If Caro continued in this provoking manner, the dowager duchess would demand to know the reason for their rudeness. And she would not like the answer.
But the dowager had paid no attention; she stifled yawn. "If everyone will excuse me, I will take this opportunity to retire. Good evening."
"Good evening, my lord." Mrs. Mallory rose from her chair in one graceful movement.
Bainbridge climbed to his feet. "You're not retiring as well, are you?" he protested. "It is early yet."
"I think it best," she murmured. Then, to the dowager, she declared, "I will accompany you upstairs, Your Grace. I find I am rather fatigued from our journey and also wish to retire."
The dowager nodded. "Come then, child, and let me lean on you. The evening chill makes my joints ache."
The duke sprang to assist her. "Let me help you, Grandmama."
"Nonsense," snorted the dowager as she levered herself from her seat. "Kit is perfectly capable of assisting me." The elderly woman held out her arm.
Mrs. Mallory dipped a curtsy to the room, then went to the dowager and allowed the older lady to lean on her as they proceeded into the hall.
"And to think we have to spend a full week in the company of that outrageous creature," huffed the duchess from the pianoforte. " 'Tis monstrous intolerable. And did you see that… that Hindu creature she brought with her? I tell you, Wexcombe, I do not want that heathen under my roof for any longer than is absolutely necessary."
"Rest assured, Caroline: we shall deal with Mrs. Mallory," the duke grumbled. "But in the meantime, you must restrain your displays of temper. Grandmama will suspect something is amiss if you are constantly baiting her guest."
"If you say so, my dear. But after tonight you cannot expect me to tip over the butter boat on her behalf," the duchess replied, wrinkling her retroussé nose.
"You will be polite," Wexcombe insisted. "We must not lower ourselves to her level."
"Very well. If I must," Her Grace muttered, then turned to the keyboard and attacked the opening measures of a Bach prelude.
The marquess ambled back to the mantel and retrieved his glass of sherry.
"Well?" His Grace queried. "How did you fare?"
"I thought I made some progress," the marquess replied, "but this widow is quite a slyboots. I'm not exactly sure what she's about. It may take some time to find out."
"We have only a week," the duke said with an exasperated sigh. "After that, we might never be able to pry her loose. Did you see how Grandmama has already come to depend upon her? Damnation-it curls my liver."
"Patience," counseled the marquess. "I will pierce her defenses soon enough. You may depend upon it."
"Are you so certain you can succeed?"
"Yes," Bainbridge murmured into his glass. "Just leave everything to me."
"So, what do you think of my family, child?" asked the dowager as they slowly ascended the sweeping marble staircase.
Kit pulled a face. What could she say that was not insulting? "I do not think they approve of me very much, ma'am."
"Do you require their approval?"
"No. You know I do not. "
The dowager chuckled. "Good. I thought as much. I tend to pay no attention to their hoity-toity ways. That, or I am so used to it after all these years."
"I wonder that you are able to tolerate it at all, Your Grace."