Curiosity lit up her face as she gave him an assessing look. “Is that why you agreed to his terms?”
“No. I… I…” He fumbled for something to say. “You’re just better than the alternative.”
“I’m better than leaving or marrying some posh London heiress?”
There was a trap there. One he didn’t know how to wiggle out of, so he retreated back to the lazy charm that usually worked so well with women—everyone but the one in front of him.
“You know what I mean,” he grumbled.
She nodded and took a steadying breath, the first hint of a smile curling her lips. “So I’ve won the bet and you’re staying.”
The woman was like a cat stalking the red dot from a laser pointer—she did not give up. “Only for six months every year.”
She took a step forward, not enough to touch him but enough that he could feel the air change around them. “I’m sure it’ll be a sacrifice.”
What in the hell had he agreed to? He wished to fuck that he knew. “It’s cold here in August.”
Lame much, Nicky boy?
One eyebrow went up. “You like to be dripping in sweat?”
No, he did not, which was why he lived next to a lake that he could sink into any time he wanted. “People drive on the wrong side of the road.”
“That is incorrect.” She waved a hand dismissively, her fingertips almost brushing his chest and leaving a trail of little sparks across his skin. “And anyway, when we drive, we are surrounded by gorgeous scenery at every turn.”
“The metric system is the worst.” That was a lie, but he was sticking with it.
“And that’s why almost the entire globe uses it except for America?”
He barely moved, but he was suddenly so close to her, she had to crane her neck to maintain eye contact. The fact that she refused to give even an inch—or a centimeter for that matter—had anticipation rushing through him. His gaze flickered down to her mouth as her lips parted, not for more words but for a soft little sigh that shot straight to his dick.
“English women are stubborn and think they’re always right.” One in particular especially.
The tip of her pink tongue snuck out and wet her lips. “Th
e phrase you’re searching for is ‘women are always right,’ as I do believe nationality has nothing to do with it.”
The urge to dip his head down and claim that sweet mouth was a hot firebrand against his skin, a yearn he couldn’t escape.
“I’m related to a total prick who thinks he is the king of his own personal fiefdom and wants me to take the reins.”
“My father names each one of his racing pigeons after Harry Potter characters and calls the opposing teams’ pigeons Muggles. Out loud. In public.” The pulse point in her throat was beating like wild and her eyes had gone a little hazy. “We don’t get to choose our family; we have to accept them for who they are.”
The air crackled around them, hot and full of promise. In another place, with another woman, that had always led to no-holds-barred, barely-get-your-clothes-off sex. He was teetering on the edge here, wondering how improper it would be for the earl’s heir to press the old man’s personal secretary up against the doorframe and see just how proper Brooke really was. He was betting that when she let go, it was fucking phenomenal. God, he wanted to see it. He wanted to be the reason for it.
“I don’t want to stay.” It was a warning and a promise, but for which one of them?
She pressed a palm over his racing heart before snatching it away, as if she couldn’t understand why she’d done that.
Welcome to the club, Lady Lemons.
She took a nearly imperceptible step back, but he couldn’t miss it. The extra space between them felt like a mile.
“Then why does it matter if I’m employed here or not? Or if the earl, as you said, helps out Bowhaven more?” she asked.
If he had an answer for that one, he would have offered it up without hesitation. As it was, he just returned her questioning stare with a glower.
The click-clack of sensible heels hurrying down the hallway from the direction of the dining room broke the moment, and by the time the housekeeper, Kate, made it to the doorway, he and Brooke were standing a good three feet apart.