She arched a skeptical brow, but then nodded. “Slowly seems to be a theme,” she observed.
“It is,” he agreed. “Because one should never be too quick when attempting to seduce someone else.”
“Really?” she asked. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, his lips turning in a smile, “you don’t wish to startle the prey.”
She laughed. “Is that what you are? Prey?”
He took a step towards her and whispered conspiratorially, “Indeed. If you are the hunter, I am the stag.”
“You do think highly of yourself,” she teased. “A stag indeed.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed, laughing. “I certainly can’t think of myself as a rabbit.”
She laughed too, a delicious sound. A sound that sent the strangest sensations through him.
It made him long to be closer to her. To close the space between them so that he could teach her just how very desirable she could be.
“No one could see you as a rabbit!” she exclaimed, her eyes dancing with amusement. “You’re correct. A stag will do,” she added. “So now what do I do to catch my stag?”
His breath caught in his throat as the night air which had been cool but a moment before seemed to heat between them. He could not believe he was doing this. It was absolutely ridiculous.
But he was doing this. And he was not about to cease.
“Now,” he said, “instead of waving the fan so quickly as if to cool yourself down, you must act as if you are attempting to waft the most beautiful perfume in the room about you.”
She blinked, taking the information in. Slowly, she began to wave the fan in front of her face, and in the starlight of the night, it caused her dark brown curls to dance gently about her cheeks.
“There,” he said. “Exactly so.”
“And are you captivated?” she mocked.
“Yes,” he said, shocked to find it was the truth. “But not because of the fan.”
“No?” she queried, though her mocking lilt faded, and the merriment in her gaze turned to something else. Something akin to longing.
“I find I quite like you, Lady Ophelia,” he admitted. “With the fan or without it. I like your honesty. I like your determination. I like your fiery nature.”
She swallowed. “Do you? No one else does.”
“Everyone else is a fool,” he said. He found himself crossing the distance between them. It was inexplicable, but he could he not stop himself as he slipped his hand to her cheek and caressed her soft skin.
“You should not attempt to be like other ladies,” he urged gently. “You are luminescent on your own. You are a single candle glowing. Do not attempt to be like all the others. You’ll be snuffed out if you do. Society, it is a cruel thing. It will take you, and it will twist you, and it will turn you into something else. Something you may not like, if you attempt to be what you are not.”
“How do you know?” she breathed.
“I’ve seen it,” he admitted, unable to tear his gaze away from her perfect face. A face perfect to him. “It is a cruel, horrible thing, and I would not wish it on you. Do not attempt to seduce any gentleman like the other simpering ladies of the ton.” He caressed his thumb along her chin. “Promise me.”
“I cannot promise you,” she said, “for I must find a husband.”
“Then I will help you,” he said.
But before he could stop himself, he found himself tilting her chin, catching the light of the moonlight in her eyes.
A madness seized hold of him. He bent down and took her mouth with his, unable to do anything else in that moment. The intimacy of it, the quietness of it, her remarkable nature—he needed it.
He did not want her friendship.