Her ragged declaration made Deverill pause and lift his head. “Making you my plaything is furthest from my intentions.”
Swallowing against the dryness in her throat, Kate found her voice, albeit a weak one. “Your intentions are beside the point. I don’t need you to show me pleasure or prove your mastery over me.”
Summoning all her willpower, she pushed at him in an effort to extricate herself from his embrace.
To her vast relief, Deverill eased his body off hers and sat up. Fighting the urge to scramble off the sofa, safely out of reach, she also sat up, though more unsteadily, and turned her back to him in order to adjust her bodice.
It was impossible to act as if she hadn’t just felt a double lightning bolt annihilating her senses, or to disguise her shamefully husky voice. Yet she was proud that she managed to feign a tiny measure of aplomb when she said in a disgusted tone, “For a man who claims to be an expert lover, you have a decided lack of control.”
“Perhaps I have been at sea too long,” he murmured in a similarly husky voice.
“So you use your long voyage to excuse your randiness?”
“I could blame my randiness on your delectable charms.”
Taking a calming breath, Kate turned to face him. “When I agreed to tutor you, I did not expect to be assaulted.”
For a moment Deverill simply studied her. Then he gave a soft chuckle, amusement warring with irony in his eyes.
His nonchalance raised her hackles. “You are not taking this bride search seriously, Deverill!”
“I assure you, I am serious.”
“Then if you wish me to continue, you must make more of an effort.”
“I will try to do better.”
She didn’t trust his mild reply. “?‘Better’ is not good enough. You will promise to behave as a gentleman, not a heathen pirate.”
“If you insist.”
“I do insist.”
Bending, Kate gathered her list, which had fallen unheeded to the floor. “What lunacy seized you?” she muttered before adding in warning, “It will never do for you to be this forward with a prospective bride. You could find yourself in a compromising position, and then you would be forced to marry her.”
“Have no fear, princess. I would never be so forward with anyone else.”
“I should hope not.” Not knowing whether to be pleased or disturbed by his reply, Kate tore her gaze from his and returned her focus to her list of marital candidates.
This had to stop! she reprimanded herself. Somehow, some way, she needed to conquer the sensual power Deverill wielded over her, but thus far she had been entirely unsuccessful.
She was very glad they would be among a large crowd tonight. And the next time she was required to meet alone with Deverill, she would insist that it not be here in her drawing room, but some other, less private setting where she wouldn’t be so damned tempted to surrender to him.
Watching Kate at the ridotto that evening, Brandon found it hard to focus on the task of interviewing bridal candidates, since he kept remembering the pleasure he’d experienced that morning. Having Kate beneath him—kissing her, fondling her—had left him hard and aching and ready to burst.
Blowing out a breath, he forcibly turned his attention to the gala. He had to admire how she’d orchestrated his debut down to the smallest detail. The Wildes had picked him up in their carriage so that he could be seen arriving with Lord and Lady Beaufort. And once there, Kate made certain he was the center of attention while watching over him protectively.
It was a gay affair, where some fifty nobles and gentry had gathered for music and dancing, a lavish entertainment that mimicked the opulent balls in Venice during the last century. Many of the guests were masked, but Kate had only permitted him a demi-mask—to give him a mysterious air without entirely concealing his features, she said, the better to tempt prospective brides.
In her own demi-mask and gold-threaded, emerald satin ball gown, Kate was pure temptation herself. If her clan navigated the glittering world of high society with ease, she was the brightest star. Her vivid coloring—fiery hair, wide expressive eyes, creamy flawless skin—set her apart from her peers. Yet those peers seemed to flock around her as if to gain some of her lively essence by sheer proximity.
An hour into the evening, they were alone long enough for Brandon to compliment her on her triumph. “It is a pleasure observing the dashing Lady Katharine in action, with all of London at her feet.”
She looked at him with slightly amused green eyes. “The ladies think you are dashing yourself. As I predicted, my acquaintances are clamoring for an introduction.”
As for her matchmaking strategy, he met the two most extreme candidates on her list, one meek, one covetous and calculating. The poor meek girl—Miss Smythe—was so tongue-tied, she couldn’t form a coherent reply to his simple greeting. Her face turned bright red, and when Kate tried to put her at ease, she finally stammered an apology, flashed a grateful look at Lady Katharine for her kindness, then fled the scene in mortification.
In another incident with a middle-aged matron who apparently was his chief detractor, Kate, rather than showing kindness, put the woman in her place with a sweetly cutting reprimand.