Page 8 of Kathryn

Tonight was only the second time Katie had seen him in the five Seasons she had spent in London. He was notorious for only coming to London when important legislation was under discussion and avoiding ton functions while he was in town.

He did not host dinners or attend parties, and only rarely accepted invitations to dine. The only reason she’d known that he would be here tonight at the Earl of Sutton’s ball was because last night Chatham had mentioned that the reclusive Dulverton would be attending his first ball in years.

That was what had given Katie the brilliant idea of putting his name on her list. She had not expected any of them to actually get close to him. Yet here he was, within kissing distance.

And never had Katie met a less kissable man.

She lifted her gaze from his lips to his eyes and was rendered breathless. It wasn’t so much the color of them, although that was extraordinary, but the intensity in them. Only a moment ago she had thought him coldly distant, but now he was looking at her. Really looking as if she were the only other person in existence.

It was… intoxicating.

Katie squirmed beneath his unwavering gaze.

You had better confess; this is not a man to be trifled with.

But once again he spoke first, uttering a series of staccato words in a language that meant nothing to her, annoyance writ large across his face.

This time it was not irritation that sparked within her but curiosity, an emotion that was far, far rarer. For the first time in forever—or at least five years—Katie was curious. And the longer she looked at the haughty, ugly man across from her, the more that spark grew, until it fairly blazed within her. Just what was he doing sitting on this bench beside her?

His eyebrows drew closer together and then he tilted his head slightly and sniffed the air, just like a hound scenting prey.

It was so silly and unexpected that Katie did something she rarely did these days—at least not genuinely—she smiled.

***

Gerrit had difficulty comprehending other men, but he was especially awkward when it came to understanding women. He could not help thinking that even a normal man or woman would find Lady Mariska’s behavior odd.

He sniffed the air for the scent of alcohol. But if she was intoxicated, she gave off no odor.

Suddenly, she smiled at him—a blazing grin—and Gerrit felt as though a hand had reached into his chest and squeezed his lungs. She was breathtaking, and that was not hyperbole; she actually stole his breath.

Van Renesse had told him that Lady Mariska was tiny, slender, and pretty. The man must not be right in the head. Or perhaps his vision was poor. The woman seated beside him was tall, shapely, and, quite frankly, stunning—nothing like his uncle’s description.

The irritation he’d been nursing toward the older man ebbed the longer he looked at his prospective bride.

Gerrit was nonplussed by the effect of beauty on his ill temper. Never would he have believed that he was so susceptible to a pretty face. To an exquisite face, he amended.

Now if only he could get the blasted woman to talk to him.

Conversation was not one of his strong suits. In any language. That was why he was willing to allow people like van Renesse and Lady Palmer to conduct his betrothal negotiations for him. If socializing and charming people—specifically women—came easily to him then he would have found his own damned wife and he would not be sitting beside a mute woman in a garden at a ball in a city he despised.

He allowed himself a lingering look at her, not bothering to hide his frank appraisal even though it was crude and ungentlemanly. Hell. How could any man resist looking at her? Her body somehow managed to be both lithe and voluptuous at the same time, the twin globes of her breasts straining her bodice while showcasing the delicate build of her shoulders. Dress styles seemed to have changed while Gerrit was not paying attention. Gone, it appeared, were the straight silhouettes. Lady Mariska’s gown was fitted from her shoulders to a waist so tiny his fingers twitched to encircle it.

She shifted irritably and his gaze lifted to hers. The cold fury in her green catlike eyes was almost enough to stifle his erection.

“Tell me the truth, my lady. Did you respond to my letter?” he asked in Dutch, deciding that speaking in her native language might help settle her ruffled feathers. Although what he had done to ruffle them was a mystery.

Lady Mariska cocked her head. Was there something wrong with her hearing? Or her mind?

You can hardly ask her those questions.

He scowled. Of course he would not ask her that. But how did one find out such information? Doubtless there were subtle ways, but Gerrit was not a subtle man. It was best to begin as he meant to go on. He opened his mouth.

“What language were you just speaking?”

As feminine as she looked, her voice was low, almost gruff, and as appealing as her person.

It was not, however, a Dutch voice.