Breathless (The House of Rohan 3)
“Alas, nothing very exciting, my lord, I assure you,” Miranda said in her mock cheerful voice. “I’m nothing above ordinary. Some might even consider me a little plump, but they’d be rude. ”
“And I would never be rude,” he murmured, watching her. She was making no move to unfasten her clothing. “Tell me more. ”
Author: Anne Stuart
He took a seat at the foot of her bed and she let out a little squeak of dismay as she pulled her feet out of the way. And then she laughed, with almost all trace of nervousness vanished. “I’m not very tall and not very short. In truth, average. My breasts are too small, my hips a little too generous, I have excellent teeth and skin and while my hair is a boring brown its length and texture are to be admired. ”
“I haven’t seen it down yet. Why don’t you unfasten your plaits and show me?”
She shook a playfully admonishing finger. She really had no idea this was a losing battle. “If I did my hair would be a mare’s nest of tangles and I’d spend the better part of the day combing them out. It’s not that interesting—it’s simply long and brown. ”
“Is it long enough to cover you like Lady Godiva?”
“I have no idea. The idea of being naked on a horse never appealed to me. ”
“That’s a great deal too bad. I find the notion quite entrancing. ”
Just a flicker of a glare, and then she gave him her sunny smile once more. “Indeed, I can’t fathom why you’d want to bother with me, my lord. I know perfectly well that you’ve had some of the great beauties of the world as your mistresses. ”
“And haven’t you wondered why?”
Her lovely forehead furrowed. “Why?” she echoed, puzzled. And then she remembered. “Oh. Well, I expect you make love in the dark,” she said naively. “Christopher St. John always did. ”
He couldn’t stop himself; he laughed. “No, my love, my soon-to-discover wife, I do not make love in the dark. I like to see what I’m enjoying. If women have objections to my appearance I soon make them forget about them. ”
“Well, you see!” she said, faintly exasperated. “You sounded as if you didn’t believe me when I said I forgot about your scars. But you wander around like Lord Byron, all broody and interesting and romantical and it’s no wonder women fall at your feet like … like things that fall at your feet. And Byron’s almost as lame as you are. ”
He stared at her in real horror. “Romantical?” he echoed in total disgust. “Broody? Like that ass Byron? My dear Miranda, you have a tongue like a barbed whip. ” He used the phrase deliberately, like prodding a sore tooth to see if it still hurt.
It did.
This time her smile was genuine, a pleased grin that she’d managed to wound his amour propre. “Well, if you don’t want to be a mysterious, romantic hero you need to gain at least two or three stone, talk about finance and belch. Your clothes are too dramatic, as well. I think colors would suit you rather than the funereal black you mope around in. Perhaps a nice puce, or a pale chartreuse. And you could cut your hair. It’s too long for fashion nowadays. Something à la Brutus would make you very much more ordinary. ”
“My hair covers my scarring. ”
“But we’ve agreed that no one notices your scarring once they’re around you. You woo them like a big, fat hairy black spider, and no matter how much they struggle they’re helpless. ”
“For some reason I can’t quite imagine a spider wooing. ” He didn’t even bother trying to hide his amusement. “And I haven’t noticed you being particularly helpless. The top button if you please. ”
“I don’t please. The room is cold and we’re not yet married and …”
“The top button, or I’ll do it myself. ”
She reached for the top button of her high-necked nightdress. The buttons were small and delicate, mother-of-pearl, and there were far too many of them. He was going to enjoy the slow unveiling, unless she argued too much. In which case he was simply going to rip them open, letting buttons fly everywhere.
The first button came undone, and he could see the hollow at the base of her throat. Such an erotic spot, he thought absently.
“Isn’t it rather late for a social call, my lord?” she said, putting her hands back in her lap and clasping them firmly.
“This isn’t a social call. It’s a conjugal one. Next button. ”
“Not likely. ”
“The next button. ”
There was the briefest hint of a glare, and then that sunny smile. She unfastened it, and he could see the lovely little indent where her collarbones met. “I presume you aren’t a practitioner of rape, my lord,” she said in a tranquil voice.
“You presume correctly. ”