“You are a graceful partner, Miss Harrington. It is I who should thank you.”
She grinned up at him. “So thank me then.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, surprised to find his mouth curving into a smile. “Do you have an answer for me?”
Her tongue darted to wet her bottom lip. “I do.”
They glided around each other again for several seconds before she replied, “I will play your fiancée.”
His heart leaped and—
“However, I have conditions.”
“Of course,” he said drolly. “I suspect I know what they are.”
One of her elegant brows winged upward. “Do you?”
“Yes, kisses. You are undoubtedly overcome with the idea of pressing your mouth to mine, unbearably tempted and are afraid to kiss me and allow yourself to be dangerously ravished,” he smoothly said.
She gasped. “You—!”
“Rogue?”
Her eyes laughed first, and then her mouth twitched. “I will not be persuaded,” she said huskily.
“Tsk,” he said. “Imagine how much fun it will be.”
She bit into her bottom lip and briefly looked away from him, but not before he saw the wild burn of hunger in her eyes. It sobered Phineas, for he felt an answering response deep inside of him. The sensations were unfamiliar and almost startling.What the hell is this?“Despite the enjoyable prospect of potential kisses, I would be remiss if I did not inform you that I am not interested in an eventual marriage.”
“You have no wish to ever marry?”
“Eventually, I will. I know my duty and responsibility to the title. However, my reasons for marriage will be predicated on my choice only and when I am ready a few years from now. My choice of the bride will not be manipulated by anyone.”
“And what if you should fall in love.”
He chuckled. “I assure you I am not plagued by such romantic inanity. Or else I suspect, like my friend Lord Blackwell, I would have fallen in love at least three times already.”
“Perhaps we should negotiate,” she murmured when he caught her close after coming out of a graceful twirl.
A primal sort of triumph slithered through him. “Tell me.”
“How long am I needed for at your home.”
“At least four weeks.”
She nodded slowly. “One kiss per week…and I decide when they will happen.”
“Two,” he countered immediately. “And surely I get to decide an opportune moment as well.”
“Done,” she said quickly.
He narrowed his eyes and she grinned. “Why do I suspect your upper limit was four.”
Her eyes crinkled at the corner, but she neither confirmed nor denied his supposition.
“They should also be public kisses.”
Ah, the savvy wench. “One private and one public.”