Malton’s gentle query brought him back from wherever he’d gone.
With a short laugh, he shook his head to clear it of the odd emotion he had difficulty describing, even to himself. Exhilaration and a sense of rightness, of things falling into place was the nearest he got to it. Like at the end of a long military campaign.
“I’m sorry, a moment’s inattention. That is all.” He recalled the topic of conversation. “I think, madam, there are different shades of green. While I have no doubt you would appear charming in apple green or the green of beech leaves in springtime, this green is definitely to be avoided.”
“Hmm.” She touched the spot he had lately been, letting the material slip through her fingers.
Dominic braced himself against a threatened shudder. What if she touched him with such delicacy? A shiver racked him. He froze his features, fighting for control.
“I believe you are right, sir,” she said softly. “This fabric is not for me.”
She flipped the stuff back so it folded in on itself, revealing the ivory beneath. “Nor this one. Sallow skin and ivory do not make a good combination.”
“Not sallow. Creamy,” he said. Her skin reminded him of nothing more than a bowl of cream fresh from the dairy, whipped for a special dish, ready to enrobe and enrich a dish of fresh strawberries. It would taste best taken from her skin.
He took a hasty step back. This highborn lady was not one he should be dallying with. How could he let himself think such a dangerous notion?
Rebuking himself for a fool, he picked up a piece of fabric at random. The shopkeeper had created a brilliant display by tossing rolls of expensive fabric across the counter, so it lay in gorgeous disarray. The piece in his hand had cherry-red stripes. He pushed it aside and found the only one on the display that he considered worthy of her. “A green like this one.” This was stiffer taffeta, a rich green that would flatter her, the color of mint leaves. It held a cool quality that would counter her fieriness.
“Why you are right. I hadn’t considered this one.” The minx gently removed the taffeta from his grasp and cradled it against her cheek. “It is a little rough.”
He suppressed a sigh of longing, when he considered how soft that cheek would be.
She knew it, too. Her eyes flashed wickedly as she blatantly checked his response to her flirting.
He rallied. “Certainly not to be worn next to the skin, for sure,” he agreed. “Though it would make a wonderful sacque. It would drape extraordinarily well.”
To his relief, he rediscovered his society mask. The idea of her in that puke-green silk made him bilious. “I would love to make a gift of it to you, but I fear you would take such a personal token amiss.”
One side of her mouth quirked up, and a dimple appeared. “Indeed I would not, sir. As you said, it would come nowhere near my skin.”
The vixen handed the stuff to the avidly listening shopkeeper. “I’ll take this. Send it to my mantua-maker, if you please. Madame Cerisot. Send the bill to Viscount St. Just. I beg your pardon. Send the account to Major Viscount St. Just.”
He smiled. She was not trapping him into any more flirtation. From now on, he would do his best to avoid her until he’d thoroughly analyzed the odd feelings she evoked in him. The stirrings of lust, certainly, but anyone looking at these two would consider that. No, the more tender, gentle emotion with which he was entirely unfamiliar. Except with his parents, and that was an entirely different case. No similarities at all.
Chapter 2
This early in the morning very few people of fashion ventured out into Hyde Park, so Claudia considered herself safe for half an hour to follow her inclinations. At the moment, that included riding properly, not the sedate walk allowed by society.
The rough track extended before her like a challenge, and only one or two people were cantering along it. The morning mist, like steam from a kettle, drifted around the bare earth and the grass bordering it. Trees spread their sheltering boughs at a short distance. Behind her lay houses and civilization. In front, who knew?
Claudia walked her horse, urged him to trot, and then to canter. The breeze drifted past, ruffling her hair, even though she’d taken care to pin it firmly to her head, and her hat on top of that.
As she passed a man riding on a fine chestnut, she kicked her mount into a gallop and shrieked.
Such delight, to let herself go for just a few minutes! Here in town she had to think every moment of every day, work out what she should do and why, and behave like a proper lady.
Hooves thundered behind her in a pounding gallop. A race! Her heart quickened and she urged her horse faster, leaning over his neck to gain an extra spurt of speed.
Her hat flew off, but apart from a shot of annoyance she ignored it. The breeze accelerated to a wind, and some of her hairpins went, too. She shouted with laughter, glanced to the side, and then back again.
Grim determination delineated the features of the man galloping by her side. He returned her glance.
After a moment, she recognized him. He looked nothing like the exquisite she’d met in the company of her brother at the draper’s.
This man wore plain riding-dress and rode with the skill of someone born in the saddle. No polite society smile graced his grim features. The hooded eyes and lazy regard were nowhere in evidence. In that one glance his sharp, fierce glare had almost stunned her.
Enough to make her lose her concentration for the second it took her horse to stumble. She had to stop.
Regaining her seat, she pulled on the reins, shortening them as her mount slowed his pace.
Lord St. Just did the unforgiveable. He rode close and tried to seize the reins. “What are you doing?” she demanded, snatching them out of the way.
“Dismount,” he ordered. That was what it was—an order.
Although she usually responded badly to commands, Claudia obeyed this one. If she did not, who could tell what he would do? She didn’t know him well enough to take the risk of defying him. If he told her brother what he’d just witnessed, Marcus could well make her early morning gallops impossible.
Sighing in exaggerated annoyance, she drew her horse to a halt by a couple of large elm trees. Before she could slide out of the saddle, he was off his horse and had his hands around her waist. His firm grasp and the way he held her as if she weighed nothing sent exhilaration flying through her. He settled her gently on the ground.
Then his annoyed expression brought her back to earth. “What were you thinking? I saw you and heard you cry for help.”
Even his voice sounded sharper, harder. She preferred this no-nonsense viscount to the man of fashion she’d met yesterday. However, she couldn’t allow him to get away with a blatant untruth. “I was shouting with pleasure, not crying for help. Don’t you know the difference?”
An expression she could only describe as wolfish made his eyes brighter, gleaming with feral promise. “Sometimes they sound remarkably similar.”
Dragging her close, he brought his lips down on hers.
When she gasped, he drove his tongue into her mouth. Was the man mad?
Mad or not, he kissed extremely well. Abandoning her reputation and her reason, Claudia flung her arm around his neck and returned his embrace with all the enthusiasm she could muster. Almost better than a dawn gallop.
He groaned, and the vibrations echoed deep in her throat. He liked this as much as she did. He slid his tongue around the interior of her mouth. She caressed it, the connection intimate enough to send a thrill right to the heart of her.
When he tried to pull away, she tightened her hold on him. She wasn’t ready for this to stop.
Unfortunately