are absurd.”
“I am correct. Admit it, Miss Peterson. You are as surely caught as I.” One of his obnoxious eyebrows flew up. “But perhaps that is what you wanted. Why did you invite Bennington into the garden?”
She dropped her gaze to study his cravat. It was sadly limp. Cravats were not designed to be cried on.
“Miss Peterson?”
She did not want to lie to him, but she most definitely did not want to tell him the truth, that she was auditioning potential husbands.
A sharp note entered his voice and his grip on her hand tightened. “Did you hope to catch a viscount? Is that what this was all about? You were angling for a title?”
“No, of course not.”
“Speak up, Miss Peterson. My waistcoat cannot hear you.”
She raised her chin to meet his gaze. “I was not interested in Lord Bennington’s title, sir.”
The right corner of his mouth crooked up, but he did not look amused.
“No? What were you interested in then? I do not presume to know the female mind, but I would not have supposed Bennington had much else to recommend him.”
Parks had a very nice mouth. Surely his lips wouldn’t feel like slugs on her skin.
“The viscount has extensive horticultural holdings.”
The lips turned up into a sneer.
“Miss Peterson, you cannot go to bed with his begonias.”
She sucked in her breath. “You are insulting, sirrah!”
She jerked back again. His hold on her was unbreakable. Not that his fingers were hurting hers—they weren’t. Neither did they appear to exert any effort to keep her in place.
Somehow he had managed to shed his gloves between the garden and this small room, but his hands were not hot and damp like Bennington’s. They were warm, strong, tanned from his hours working with his plants.
She wished she could remove her own gloves to better feel his touch. Her breasts tingled, as if they, too, would like to encounter his fingers.
What an idea! Heat flooded her—her face must be as red as a ripe tomato.
“How many men have you lured into a darkened corner?”
“Mr. Parker-Roth, I must insist that you release me.” She certainly was not going to answer that question. Not that the number was so great. There had been only five before Bennington.
“Did they all maul you? Is that what you want, Miss Peterson? Are you that anxious for male attention?”
The man was insufferable. His words were beyond insulting. She opened her mouth to give him a set down and noticed a peculiar gleam in his eye. It was…hot. Quite at odds with his cold tone.
“Shall I kiss you, then? Is that what you would like?”
“Yes, indeed.”
It wasn’t until she saw the startled look in his eyes that she realized she had spoken aloud.
Good God! Parks blinked. Had he heard correctly? She wanted him to kiss her?
What was it about this woman? He did not make a habit of lusting after ladies of the ton. Of course, most society ladies did not appear in shredded bodices with their hair tumbled about their shoulders. When she had asked him if he could braid it for her, he’d thought he was going to explode. To have his fingers in all that warm silk again…And then she kept moving her arms so her lovely white breasts flickered in and out of view.
And now the girl had asked him to kiss her.
She was mad—and maddening. A proper young lady would be sitting demurely on that settee, sobbing quietly into her handkerchief, overset by the scene in the garden. Hopeful that she would get an engagement ring on her finger immediately. But when he’d stated the obvious, Miss Peterson had flown into the boughs. She’d put her hands on her hips—until she realized what a delightful view it afforded him—and had poked him in the chest. And now she’d asked him to kiss her.
He was a gentleman, first and foremost. He could never turn down a lady’s request.
He smiled slightly. She was gaping up at him as if she had even shocked herself. How nice that her mouth was already ajar. He would perhaps discover just how much she’d learned from those other men.
He kept her hand cradled against his chest, but pulled her slightly closer. She came without protest. He bent slowly, giving her time to flee, but she stood still, like a startled deer.
His mouth touched hers. He half expected her to bolt then, just as a deer would when one approached too close, but she didn’t. Her lips were soft and motionless under his.
He cupped her jaw with his free hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. It was soft, like a rose petal. She smelled of roses, too—light, sweet.
She made a small inarticulate noise. Her other hand released its grip on the shawl to come up to rest on his waistcoat. Still her mouth was quiescent under his.
He smiled slightly, putting his arms around her, gently pulling her close. These were not the reactions of an experienced woman. Whatever Miss Peterson had been doing in the shrubbery with the men of the ton, she had not lost her air of innocence. It was proving incredibly seductive.
He ran a hand through her hair, lifting a heavy length away from her neck. He trailed kisses along her jaw line to a spot just below her ear. She tilted her head, giving him more room. Her breath came in little pants. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, and her shawl slipped to reveal more of her creamy skin.
Beautiful.
The line of her throat, her collar bone, the sweet curve of her breast. He gathered one breast into his hand. It was warm and heavy, filling his palm. He glanced at her face for any sign of alarm at his boldness, but her eyes were closed. Her small white teeth caught her lower lip.
He kissed each eyelid lightly while he stroked the treasure in his palm. Her body sagged into his.
When his thumb found her hard, stiff nipple, she inhaled—and he let his tongue follow into her moist heat.
His last coherent thought was a wish.
If only the door were locked and the settee bigger.
Embarrassment was definitely not fatal—she had proven that too many times to count tonight. Had she actually asked Parks to kiss her? Surely not. But then why had his eyes widened in just that fashion? And then they’d narrowed and assumed a very alert, intent gaze.
She should step back. He had her hand against his chest, but he would let her go if she wanted. He would not force her. There was no coercion in his hold.
She felt a slight pressure urging her closer, and she went. He was going to grant her request. She knew it.
She should move her head
