‘If we can improve on our one kiss?’
‘Why not? Since there will not be another one,’ she said defiantly.
‘Oh, Jane. Either you are the most artless girl I have ever met or you are the most cunning.’ He took her other hand.
‘What do you mean? Cunning?’
‘If you hoped to provoke a man into giving a kiss his full attention and every ounce of skill in the matter that he can summon, you could not do better.’
They were standing toe to toe now. She found she liked his teasing. She liked the sensation of being so close, of anticipation. She wanted him to kiss her.
‘Excellent. But could you do it now, please, because Mama will be rushing in any moment now, you realise?’
Being kissed by a man who was smiling was really rather wonderful. It made her smile back against his lips, made it so easy for his tongue to slip in, teasing, stroking. That was such a surprise she almost jumped, almost bit him, then she found she could stroke back with hers and that when she did Ivo’s arms tightened around her and he made a sound, almost a purr, deep in his throat. That gave her a strange feeling—almost tenderness, almost power, certainly a longing for more.
When he lifted his head and set her back a little, she blinked at him and found they were both still smiling. ‘That was very... Verity said it was very...but I did not believe her.’
‘Did she say anything more about the married state?’
‘I did ask her,’ Jane admitted. ‘Mama would never explain. I mean, what on earth have bees and flowers to do with anything? Or closing one’s eyes and fixing one’s mind on duty and children? So, Verity told me and, I have to say, it does sound highly improbable that it is an enjoyable thing to do, but she assures me that it is. With the right person.’
Ivo was still smiling. She hoped he was not laughing at her. Or at her pink cheeks. It was surprising that they were not scarlet, because this was a very naughty conversation to be having.
‘Perhaps I am the right person for you after all,’ he said and there was a question in his eyes and something else, something unsettling.
Something very like pain? Surely not. And had she imagined the very lightest emphasis on you—as though she might not be right for him. But if that was the case Ivo could be proposing purely out of gallantry.
‘I am not sure that nice kisses, or whatever happens in bed, are good enough reasons for risking marriage,’ she said.
‘I would encourage you to paint,’ Ivo said. ‘You could paint whoever you wanted—there would be no need to do it for money, so there would be no criticism of you.’
Jane studied his face, the line between his brows as the smile faded and he watched her, studying her face in his turn as she thought it through.
This was what I want, surely? But I would be painting at his whim, with his permission...
‘You wanted to be independent?’ he said, clearly reading her doubts. ‘I can see that would be a stumbling block. Would you accept my word that I will not stand in the way of your art? Would you be very kind and tolerate being a rich woman?’
‘Yes, I could tolerate being a rich woman,’ Jane agreed, not certain whether to laugh or cry. It all sounded so very tempting, so very easy. Approval from Mama and Papa, no need to fight to paint as she wished. No risk of finding herself starving in a garret, cast off by her family and failing to find any customers for her art.
Accepting Ivo’s offer would mean life with this man who was having an unsettling, but very pleasant, effect on her equilibrium... She tried not to think about that or about the intimacies that marriage would bring. Those thoughts went far beyond unsettling if she let them. Her mind shied away and found something else to worry about. Marriage meant more than what happened beyond the bedchamber door. ‘But I would acquire a great many duties, would I not? I have not been raised to be an aristocratic wife.’
‘We have a very competent housekeeper, there is nothing for you to worry about.’
The word yes was on the tip of her tongue, then, for some reason, one of her friend Melissa’s favourite sayings came to her. If it is too good to be true, then it probably is. Why she should choose that moment to recall it, she did not know, but it was certainly timely.
‘But you do not want to marry me,’ Jane said. ‘This is pure gallantry. You would not have thought of it if we had just happened to meet socially. You would not have decided, There’s the lady I will court and wed, now, would you?’
‘I had intended to marry when I returned to England,’ Ivo said, after a pause so short she might have imagined it. But she could not miss the fact that he had not answered her question. ‘And this is clearly my duty—’ He broke off, presumably realising that this was not a tactful approach. ‘We find ourselves in a position where it would be most sensible to wed. We have rubbed along very well except when the question of you earning your living by your art came up, have we not?’
‘Rub along? Is that really all you want from marriage?’
‘It seems a perfectly reasonable proposition,’ Ivo said. ‘You were prepared to go to any amount of trouble and deceit to get what you want—the opportunity to paint as you desire. You were willing to accept the risk of social ostracism, a rift from your parents, difficulties for your cousin Miss Lowry, poverty and loneliness.’
She should tell him that she had changed her mind, that he had helped her see that it was not what she truly wanted after all. Pride stopped her.
‘I am offering you social acceptance, wealth, access to subjects to paint you could not have dreamt of. Your parents would be delighted—’
‘And what about love?’ she broke in. ‘What if I fall in love with someone else after we marry? What if you do?’