Page 12 of Souvenir of Love

Elizabeth had a fairly good idea of what she was going to do. She was going to see James again. She was going to kiss him again and see if he created the same havoc of emotions and sensations. She’d need to do it in the bright light of day, she mused, without the benefit of champagne. Not that she believed candlelight and champagne had anything to do with her reaction to him, but simply to make certain. Her mind bumped up against the question:certain of what?Certain of… She paused, struck by the dimensions of what she was thinking, certain that James Dinsmore was the man for her. She had the strongest notion that he was…

He’d be resistant, of course; James wasn’t exactly the marrying kind.But he’d ruined her.After the events of this evening, Rafe and Anne would bring him up to scratch.Thatshe knew with sudden surety.

The smile that had blossomed on her lips bloomed.

“My God,” she heard her brother swear. “She’s radiant, Alix, just look at her. No question about it, my sister’s gone utterly mad.”

“Do you think,” Alix whispered, “Dinsmore madness might be infectious?”

Five

His valet removed his satin evening clothes, drew a cambric nightshirt over his head, and waited as James Dinsmore poured himself a brandy and took a seat at his dressing table.

“Is something wrong, sir?” The valet began brushing the waves out of James’s unbraided queue. Master Dinsmore usually retired closer to dawn and never poured his own drink.

“Quite all right.” James waved the question away with a moisturized hand. Actually, he felt unsettled, unclean even. “But I believe that will be enough brushing.”

“Very good, sir. Shall I draw the curtains?”

James nodded as he rose from his dressing table, picked up his brandy, and headed toward the bed, draped in a half canopy of champagne-colored silk. He put the almost empty glass down on a marble-topped nightstand and climbed under the threadbare sheets. A tad damp, but not nearly as cold as they had been when he and Anne first arrived in September.

“Shall I put out the candles, sir?”

“All but this one by my bed, Simmons.”

The pale-gold room faded into darkness, until all that could be seen lay within the shivery domain of the single candlestick on the nightstand. A book of poetry, a glass of water, three copper coins. The circle shifted briefly as Simmons opened the bedroom door and a draft from James’s study swept the room. He paused, looking back at the golden figure in the bed. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

James shook his head. “Good night, Simmons.”

“Good night, sir.”

The door swung quietly closed.

James put his glass down, drew his knees up, and rested his chin on them. He closed his eyes. Occasional bursts of laughter drifted up from the first-floor ballroom. Outside his window he could hear voices, words of farewell, promises of future meetings, and the clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones.

For a moment he felt like the child he’d once been in this London town house—fascinated by the glittering world of his parents’ parties, frustrated that he wasn’t allowed to attend, and ultimately reassured by the sound of the departing coaches that reminded him, when all was said and done, his parents would remain behind with him.

Sometimes during those parties, Anne would sneak into his room, and, standing on tiptoe, they’d peer out the windows, watching the guests. Anne liked to imagine which sort of gowns and jewels she’d wear. James liked to compare the men’s short ceremonial swords. “When I’m married to a rich handsome fellow like that,” Anne would say, pointing with a child’s chubby finger, “I’ll buy you one for every day of the week!”

But then their mother died and the parties stopped.

As their father became increasingly obsessed with the possibility of a Roman invasion, his solicitors became increasingly concerned about the decline of the Dinsmorefortune. They wanted to have the duke declared insane and have his title and responsibilities transferred to James.

Anne protested. Vehemently. Their father was grieving, she insisted—it was natural. Who knew but that his wits might return any day?

And the scandal. The ton might overlook idiosyncrasies in a peer. They might sympathize with a downturn in fortune, but insanity would dash any hopes they might have of making truly suitable matches. James allowed himself to be persuaded by his sister’s arguments. If it made her happy to pretend their father was a reclusive scholar engrossed in antiquities, fine by him. He’d just as soon avoid the responsibilities of heading up the family and overseeing the estates.

He didn’t really care about inheriting the title.

And he wasn’t particularly interested in marriage.

He wasn’t particularly interested in anything, he thought, with the weariness of a man of seventy, rather than twenty-seven. The image of a trim figure with a head full of chestnut curls and hazel eyes that bespoke trouble blazed into his head. “Not even you,” he whispered.

Just another body, then?His inner voice mocked him.Just another set of lips that fitted yours as if they’d been made to meet? Just another pair of warm, smooth breasts seemingly designed to fill your hands? And the heat…

“It was the champagne,” he murmured.

You weren’t drinking champagne.