Astonishment flared in her caramel eyes. And dangerous pleasure. He fought the urge to draw her back into his arms. He’d managed to stop once. Nothing on God’s green earth would restrain him if he succumbed to temptation a second time.
“But why did I let you?”
“Perhaps because we’re trapped here,” he said, knowing that the attraction went much deeper than mere propinquity.
“It must be more than that.” She studied him with a troubled expression. “I’ve never acted this way before.”
“I generally don’t leap on virtuous young women either,” he responded, stung.
“You seemed to know what you were doing.” It sounded like an accusation.
Lyle knew she picked a quarrel as a distraction. But he refused to oblige. He was experienced enough to know that a loss of temper would lead to a different loss of control. He stared into the fire and answered in a mild tone. “Does that mean you liked it?”
“I don’t have much to compare it to,” she muttered.
Shocked, he turned back to her. Shocked and disgusted with himself. He’d jumped on her like a starving man snatched at a cheese sandwich. “You make me feel like a beast.” He paused as he pondered just what she’d said. “Much or nothing?”
She frowned at him. “What?”
“You said you didn’t have much to compare my kisses to.”
She blushed. “You have no right to ask that.”
“I had no right to kiss you either. Yet I did.” His gaze sharpened. “Who’s been trifling with your favors? And where do I need to go to kill him?”
She didn’t smile at his absurdity. Nor was he convinced he was joking. “I’ve been kissed before,” she admitted ungraciously. “It was…nice.”
A grunt of laughter escaped as he sagged with relief. “I don’t need to kill him after all. Heaven help your swains if that’s the best they can do.”
Miss Warren regarded him with displeasure. Thank God. He preferred her snap and fire to seeing her crushed with mortification.
“Your kisses weren’t nice.”
“I should hope not.”
“And I do wish you’d put a shirt on,” she said crossly, shifting to the edge of the bed but still—interesting again—without making any move to leave.
Feeling absurdly optimistic for a man who had been stopped in his wicked tracks, he rolled to his side of the bed and stood. The temptation of having her near tested what small restraint he retained.
Sending her a sardonic glance, he retrieved his shirt from the floor. Miss Warren lolled on the pillows like a sultan’s favorite and studied him with a hunger he knew she was yet to recognize. The problem was he recognized it—and it made him itch to kiss her again. To do more.
He arched a mocking eyebrow. “Do you plan to stay and watch me dress?”
Her blush intensified as she stumbled off the bed. “You’re a devil.”
She planted her feet on the floor and struggled to do up her dress. While she fiddled, he wrenched the shirt over his head. Hearing a frustrated hiss, he bit back a smile and the impulse to tell her she was adorable.
He stepped up to her. “Let me help.”
To his surprise, she presented her back and swept the curtain of hair aside to reveal the graceful line of nape and shoulders. For a forbidden moment, he didn’t move, but inhaled until her flowery scent flooded his senses.
“What on earth are you doing?” she asked, turning her head to give him a glimpse of her profile. Her features weren’t delicate. There was too much character in her nose and defiance in her chin. But he dared anyone who saw her ever to forget her.
“Considering artistic matters,” he said gently. He set to doing up her gown. Much against his deepest inclinations.
Her lips tightened. “Oh?”
“You know, I’d never cast you as Cinderella.” He fastened the top hook and lowered his hands to her slim hips. He tempted fate—and self-control—but he couldn’t resist stringing out the physical contact. “You’re more queen than ingénue.”