“I probably am. And you drink too much.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why do you drink so much? Is the flavor so appealing to you?”
“Rather, it steadies my nerves.” Ah. It would be the truth. It always required several glasses for him to mouth partial truths, after all. Her wide blue eyes apparently took him the remainder of the way to complete truth.
No lies with Diantha Lucas, except one. If she knew he meant to take her home, she would seek to escape him again. With Eads on his trail, and perhaps the man in brown, he could not risk further delays.
“Well, I am excessively nervous at the present,” she said, squaring her graceful shoulders, “so perhaps I shall have some too.”
“You do not appear excessively nervous.”
“I am an excellent dissembler. Really, Mr. Dyer, that should be clear to you by now.” She reached for a cup and lifted it to her lips. She sniffed and her nose wrinkled—her pert nose that sported two minute, round scars, so small they were not visible unless a man studied her quite closely, as he could not prevent himself from doing now. There were others across her brow and cheeks as well, tiny imperfections that rendered the grace of her features more touchable.
She was damnably touchable.
The musicians struck up a country dance. Her eyes, pools of azure in the glowing light of late afternoon, sought his over the rim of her cup. “Will it taste horrid?”
“You must judge for yourself.”
“My stepfather and sister Charity say I should not drink spirits. I haven’t before, you know. Not even wine.” She glanced down into the cup then back up at him. “You are not going to tell me not to drink it?”
“That would be singularly hypocritical of me, I believe.”
She sipped. She blinked, rapidly. Then she sipped again. She lowered the cup.
“It is not horrid.”
He shook his head.
“It has not calmed my nerves yet.”
“It requires several minutes.”
She raised the cup again.
“It’s warm,” she said this time, her eyes widening. “Rather, hot.” She placed her gloved hand over her throat then slid it down between her breasts. Her lashes flickered, and Wyn thought he saw something in them from earlier, when he’d taken her hand to assist her down from the coach: primal awareness.
Selfish fool that he was, he did not now for her sake play the hypocrite and remove the cup from her grasp. For he wished to see more of that glimmer in her eyes, more of that awareness directed at him. He wished to be, for the first time in years—rather, ever—thoroughly irresponsible with a girl. With a lady. This lady.
He wished what he wished every time he reached for a bottle of brandy, a glass of whiskey, a pint of ale. He wished to forget.
Diantha could not feel her lips. She could, however, see Mr. Yale’s, despite the dark night and dim lamplight. She could not in fact manage to take her eyes off his mouth. His intriguing mouth. His mouth that looked so absolutely delicious.
De. Lish. Os. Mouth.
But it was too far away now. His mouth. And the rest of him. Far too far away. He had gone to the other side of the drive. She recalled him telling her quite firmly that she must under no circumstances follow him. And she had not. She was very good and remained precisely where he left her leaning up against the back of Sir Henry’s carriage house at the edge of a row of mightily tall black trees.
But she wanted to follow him. She wanted to be wherever he was. She wanted . . . Oh, she wanted . . .
She opened her eyes, uncrossing them. He was standing before her. The lamplight rimmed about him.
“You look like you are wearing a crown.” She squinted. “Are you a prince, Mr. Yale?”
“Yes. From now on you may address me as Your Royal Highness.”
She placed her palm upon his chest. “I thought so. I thought perhaps you were a prince. But then you are far above my station. I am merely a baronet’s sister. Not sufficiently grand to dance with you.”
“There will be no dancing tonight in any case, so you needn’t worry over it.”
“That is a relief. Good heavens, this is remarkably fine fabric!” She stroked her fingertips across the silk of his waistcoat.
“Only the best for my wedding night.” His voice sounded hoarse.
“Wedding night?” She snapped her hand away and somehow his hand was around her shoulder then, which was a good thing because in his grasp she swayed gently into the stable wall instead of into air. She regained her footing. “Have you gotten married today?”
“Yes, Mrs. Dyer.” He released her. “To you, according to everyone you spoke to this evening.”
“Oh.” She felt her lips curve into a smile. Feeling! But now her nose was numb. “That is a relief. Because I ex-press-ly wished to—to—” She pawed at the air and her hand landed again on his chest. “—to touch you.” She sighed. “If you were married I should not, of course.”
“Even if I were not married, you should not.” His hand came around her wrist, large and warm, and then her hand was again dangling at her side, not touching any part of him, which really was a royal disappointment. She frowned at her fingers, then up at him and his intriguing mouth. His delicious-looking mouth.
“Mrs. Polley has not yet awoken,” he said with that mouth, and she blinked to keep it in focus. “We must wait for her to rouse before we set off. If we awaken her abruptly, she might be startled and alert others, though it seems that Sir Henry’s servants and remaining guests are either abed or too cup-shot to notice.”
“Oh, yes. She might believe she was being abducted and scream. I would.”
“I doubt it. You would be more likely to quash your abductor over the head with whatever came to hand and grab the ribbons yourself.”
“I don’t suppose you will let me drive. Papa never lets me drive, though I am quite a fine whip as ladies go. Good heavens, that sounded remarkably petulant, I think.”
“It is to be expected. And no, minx, I will not allow you to drive. Not in this condition.”
“What condition?” She sucked in a great lungful of air and shook her head. “Mr. Yale, Mr. Yale. I am in no condition for anything but one thing.”
“What is that?” His voice smiled. She adored the way his voice smiled, because it revealed so much. It told her he thought she was amusing, and perhaps even a pleasure to be with. Gentlemen did not feel that way about her. Oh, everybody else did, but that was only because she liked them, and people liked to be liked, of course. But young gentlemen did not notice her. Handsome men did not notice her. Rather the opposite. She was the spotty little fat girl that no one wanted to dance with unless it was to taunt and mock her and pull her hair and ribbons and pinch her until she wept.
Except him. He had danced with her, with her spots and puffy cheeks and all.
“I am in the perfect condition, Mr. Yale, for you to put your hands on me.” She closed her eyes and let the night air filter over her lips and eyelids and—
She was hot.
“I am hot.” She tugged at her cloak fastening. But her eyes were closed so she could not see it. Or perhaps her gloves were too tight. She picked at them, but it turned out she wasn’t wearing any.
“Where have my gloves gone?”
“You removed them some time ago. They are in your pocket.”
“Oh, good. Papa gave me to them—them to me last Christmas. They are quite fine. From London you know. Like you.”
“I am not from London, Miss Lucas.”
She gripped his lapels and pressed her cheek to his chest. So solid. So warm. So Mr. Yale. He smelled very, very good, of clean linen and something else that was deeply nice.
“Do cease calling me Miss Lucas.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “I don’t like it, but I would like to remove this cloak. I am positively sweltering.”