Page 31 of Souvenir of Love

“I think it takes courage for a man to say he’s sorry publicly, greater courage than taking the field at dawn.”

“The flattery’s a nice touch, Elizabeth, but it won’t work. You see,” he said carefully, “I’m not sorry.”

She inhaled sharply. “Rafe was right? Youwantedto see me disgraced?”

“No. Well, yes, perhaps, initially.” He ran a hand through his hair, disarranging his valet’s careful work. “Let me explain.”

“You’ve nothing to explain. I understand perfectly; you’re nothing more than your sister’s puppet!”

“Good Lord, woman, you leap from conclusion to conclusion like a child playing skipping games.”

She drew back her veil and her enormous hood flopped back over her shoulders. “So now you’re likening me to achild?”

“That’s not what I meant at all. Though eighteen is barely out of the nursery.” He paused, distracted by the accordion folds of fabric and ribbon collapsed about her shoulders. “Where did you get that ridiculous cape?”

“You are likening me to a child, and it was my mother’s. We keep it about for the occasional masked ball.”

“I take it back,” he said, amusement and exasperation combining in equal parts in his voice. “You are a child, a wild child. Playing dress-up in your mother’s old clothes, appearing unchaperoned at the servants’ entrance, claiming to be my mistress, claiming that that”—he cast a quick look about for the dog, who had settled into a plush brocade chair and was happily chewing the tassel of an embroidered pillow—“creature is my offspring.”

“How else was I to see you?”

“Youweren’tsupposed to see me!” He glanced around his dressing room, at his dressing gown draped over a chair, at two crumpled stocks on his dressing table and the discarded choice of ribbons for his braided queue. “At least not here. You were supposed to wait for me to call.”

“I did. An entire day and a half.”

“Such a paragon of patience,” he said in a mocking tone. “I declare, Elizabeth, you’d rival a saint.”

She placed her hands on her hips, parting her cloak in the process. “You of all people should know I am no saint.”

His eyes swept over her breasts, the inviting curve of her lips. “Indeed, you are no saint, Elizabeth Harcrest,” he said softly, “but, verily, you could tempt one.”

She flushed, caught off guard. But only for the briefest moment. “And how would you know, James Dinsmore? You’re the furthest man from sainthood I’ve ever met.”

“Most likely,” he agreed.

“And precisely when did you plan to call upon me?” she demanded.

He frowned. “You Harcrests can be damned persistent!”

“And you Dinsmores are damned evasive!”

“I hadn’t decided.”

She snorted. “You weren’t coming.”

“Why did you want me to call, Elizabeth? What did you expect we would discuss? The weather, the latest fashions, drama, literature, philosophy, horseflesh, marriage?”

Her bravado seemed to fade with her color. “Don’t you want to marry me?” she asked in a voice that was nearly a whisper.

“Why do you even ask, Elizabeth? What does it matter? Your brother has declared me unfit for it. It’s amongst the reasons he wishes to kill me.” He stepped closer to her and curled a finger under her chin. “Do you want to marry me, Elizabeth?”

“If it would put an end to the duel.”

“How very noble,” he said, caressing the line of her jaw. “Perhaps you could be a saint after all.” His breath was warm against her lips. “The patron saint of desire.” He kissed her.

It was Elizabeth who broke away first. “You won’t fight him, then. You’ll call the duel off?”

“Don’t you know,” he said, a trace of regret in his teasing voice, “things never turn out well for saints?”