Wildfire Kiss (Sir Edward 1)

Taffy was off the sofa and standing with them, wagging her finger at her brother with good humor, laughing, pointing out references from the Chronicle, quoting members of Parliament, and fascinating him.

He was taken aback by her, sure he should not be conversing with such a young chit in such a fashion, and yet …

Her style had caught his interest, and the next thing he knew, he was watching the way she moved. Her walk was a series of bounces—so full of life—and her body looked so damned provocative. There was something in her every step displaying she was happy to be alive, and yet, she was graceful and feminine. She was new, shiny and bright … but he knew better than to fall victim to such charms. She seemed to glide in a whirlwind of unconscious high spirits and displayed sweet affection when his aunt had remarked upon something amusing. She hugged his aunt affectionately and placed a kiss upon her white cheek.

“Don’t squeeze me so, child,” cried Lady Watson with a laugh. “I’m too old and will, in all likelihood, crack.” She took Taffy’s hand. “Now … in with you … time to eat.”

“Is it true they call you the Hotspur …?” Seth asked as they walked toward the dining room.

His uncle exclaimed in a shocked accent, “Seth!”

“What?” He took to blushing.

Tarrant laughed out loud and bowed his head

. “The same, sir,” he said as he noted from the corner of his eye Lady Taffeta was studying him rather openly. It was not a surprising circumstance. He had achieved over the years an education in the arts of the female. He had been subjected to maids of many admirable qualities and had suffered more than he cared to remember from their missish airs and coy flirtations. He knew he was a marriage prize. He knew, but it had not always been so. It had not been true when his oldest brother had still been alive with both the title and most of the fortune. He had only been the second son and had been in love with a beautiful woman, but she had wanted more … more than the second son.

He understood the game, and he loathed its intricacies and its inherent dishonesty.

They reached the dining room, took their seats, and Taffeta said to him across the table, “That black of yours, the stud we saw when we came up the drive, is magnificent. I don’t think he was here when we were last,” she said and then turned to his aunt. “Was he, Lizzie dear?”

“Absurd child, what would I do with such a beast? His name is Demon, and he belongs to Tarrant here,” answered Lady Watson. “His lordship is considered quite a horseman, and we believe Demon will let no other on his back.”

“A Corinthian is what his lordship is.” Taffy’s brother stuck in and then receded into a deprecatory cough. “Or so I have heard …”

Taffy turned her bright gray, interested gaze back to Lord Tarrant. “So then, are you saying Demon is the very devil to handle, my lord?” Her eyes twinkled at him, and once again he was mesmerized by her.

“That he is—in fact it’s how he got his name.” He discovered that against his will, she had drawn a smile from him. He had meant to ignore her to the point of rudeness.

Lady Watson’s pug, at this point, managed to push open the dining room door, which had not been totally closed. He stopped at the threshold, surveying the assembled group, and with a screeching series of barks, ran over, and dove into Lady Taffeta’s lap.

She petted the dog with a laugh, saying, “Do stop it, you vicious, adorable little thing. There now, go sit by Lizzie … there is a good boy.”

*

With this, Taffy returned her attention to her companions and discovered Nigel and her brother had engaged Tarrant in conversation, and she used the time to better peruse him.

He was the man from her dream. She had seen this at once, and how she had controlled the fit of coughing she nearly succumbed to was more than she presently knew.

At first she thought she must be wrong, but when she looked at him fully, she knew: he was the man … only he had been naked in her vision … and … this was wrong—all wrong.

He was devastatingly handsome … more handsome than any man she had ever seen; however, here, unlike in her dream, he appeared cold-hearted and arrogant. Yes, insufferably arrogant.

His manners, though polite, had been decidedly aloof. She decided he was probably no better than any London Corinthian puffed up with his own consequence. He could not be the man in her vision. She knew she could never be romantic with such a man … and it was clear he certainly was not interested in her.

She shrugged him off in her mind and returned her attention to Lady Watson, who had smiled and asked, “And so, my child, you will be leaving for London and dear Sissy’s soon? Are you very excited?

“No, dreading it, in fact,” Taffy said on a heavy sigh. “It is bound to be dull work.”

Lord Tarrant regarded her, and she was, for a moment, caught up in his gaze.

“London … dull work?” he quizzed.

She wasn’t sure if she liked his tone or the manner in which he lifted his dark brow, as though he didn’t believe her. “Yes, dull work, when one considers what it is all about—at least to a female.”

“How do you mean?”

“Sissy will insist I put up my hair all the time, and no doubt outfit me in the most fashionable gowns and make me hold my tongue and ride sedately and all manner of horrible things, and why? Because I must be paraded and then sold to the highest bidder! Outrageous. The entire thing a bore.”