A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 18

Penelope’s eyes flashed with fury. “Nevertheless, a gentleman would never dream of . . . of . . .”
He watched her flounder for the word, enjoying her discomfort, finally offering, “I believe the word you are looking for is ‘spanking.’ ”
Her eyes went wide at the word. “Yes. That. Gentlemen don’t . . .”
“First, I thought we’d already established that I am not a gentleman. That ship sailed long ago. And second, you’d be surprised what gentlemen do . . . and what ladies enjoy.”
“Not this lady. You owe me an apology.”
“I would not hold my breath waiting for it.” He heard her little gasp as he moved across the kitchen to the place where he’d left a bottle of scotch earlier in the evening. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“So polite.”
“One of us should be, don’t you think?”
He turned to face her, half-amused and half-surprised by her smart mouth.
She was not tall, barely the height of his shoulder, but at the moment she looked like an Amazon.
The hood of her cloak had fallen away, and her hair was in disarray, tumbling around her shoulders, gleaming pale blond in the dim light. Her chin was thrust forward in a universal sign of defiance, her shoulders were stiff and straight, and her chest rose and fell with harsh anger, swelling beneath her cloak.
She looked as though she’d like to do him no small amount of bodily harm.
“This is kidnapping.”
He took a long pull on the bottle, enjoying her look of shock at his behavior as he wiped the back of his hand across his lips and met her gaze. He remained quiet, enjoying the way his silence set her on edge.
After a long moment, she announced, “You cannot kidnap me!”
“As I said outside, I have no intention of kidnapping you.” He leaned forward until his face was on a level with hers. “I intend to marry you, darling.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “I am leaving.”
“No, you are not.”
“I’m not restrained. I could leave if I tried.”
“Restraints are for amateurs.” He leaned back against the sideboard. “I encourage you to try.”
She cast an uncertain look at him before shrugging one shoulder and heading for the door. He blocked her exit. She stopped. “I realize you’ve been out of society for quite some time, but you cannot simply abduct your neighbors.”
“As I said, this is not an abduction.”
“Well, whatever it is,” she said peevishly, “it isn’t done.”
“I should think you would have noticed by now that I care very little for what is done.”
She considered the words for a moment. “You should.”
There was a hazy familiarity in the way she stood, stick straight, instructing him in proper behavior. “There she is.”
“Who?”
“The Penelope from my childhood. So concerned with propriety. You haven’t changed at all.”
She lifted her chin. “That’s not true.”
“No?”
“Not at all. I’m quite changed. Entirely different.”
“How?”
“I—” she started, then stopped, and he wondered what she was about to say. “I just am. Now let me go.” She moved to push past him. When he did not move, she stopped, unwilling to touch him.
A pity. The memory of the warmth of her gloved hand on his cold cheek flashed. Apparently her behavior outside had been the product of surprise.
And pleasure.
He wondered what else she might do instinctively in response to pleasure. An image flashed—blond hair spread wide across dark, silken sheets, ice blue eyes alight with surprise as he gave prim, proper Penelope a glimpse of dark and heady pleasure.
He’d nearly kissed her in the darkness. It had started out as a way to intimidate her, to begin the systematic compromising of quiet, unassuming, Penelope Marbury. But he did not deny that as they stood in his barren kitchen, he wondered what she would taste like. How her breath would sound fluttering across his skin. How she would feel against him. Around him.
“This is foolish.”
The words snapped him back to the present. “Are you sure you would not like a drink?”
Her eyes went wide. “I—no!”
She was so easy to frustrate. She always had been. “It is still polite to offer one’s guests refreshment, is it not?”
“Not whiskey! And certainly not straight from the bottle!”
“I suppose I’ve made a hash of it, then. Perhaps you could remind me of what I should be offering my guests in such a situation?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. “I don’t know, considering I’m not in the habit of being abducted in the middle of the night to barren country houses.” Her lips pressed into an irritated straight line. “I should like to return home. To bed.”
“That can be arranged without your having to return home, you know.”
She made a little noise of frustration. “Michael . . .”
He hated the name on her lips.
No, he didn’t. “Bourne.”
She met his eyes. “Bourne . . . you’ve proven your point.” He stayed quiet, curious, and she pressed on. “I understand that it was bad judgment to wander out into the woods in the middle of the night. I see now that I could have been overcome. Or abducted. Or worse, and I am prepared to admit that you have taught me a well-needed lesson.”
“How very gracious of you.”
She pressed on, as though he had not spoken, edging around him. He moved to block her exit. She stopped and met his gaze, her blue eyes flashing with what he imagined was frustration. “I am also prepared to ignore the fact that you have committed an egregious breach of etiquette by moving me—bodily—from a public location to an entirely inappropriate . . . altogether too private one.”