wondered what it would take to make him lose some of that control he practiced. It would probably require a good deal more teasing, more time, to accomplish that. First she had to figure out how to put herself in his way in order to even begin. Although at the moment she would rather contemplate how it might end. What it might feel like to have his hands on her. Would he be a rough lover? Gentle? She grew warmer just thinking about it, and had to fan herself that much more diligently. Late summer in London could be simply sweltering.
“I was going to ask you to dance, but perhaps you would like some fresh air instead?”
Imogen was so surprised to hear his voice that she stopped her fan in mid-flutter. “Mr. Bittlesworth.”
He sketched a bow. “At your service, Miss Grant.”
Had she conjured him from her fervent imaginings? Her thoughts scrambled for purchase. Here he was and she hadn’t considered how she would proceed in this situation. Which would be better? A turn out-of-doors where they might find some privacy in the gardens? Or the tension born of touching politely in a room of onlookers when all one really wanted was to be able to strip off one’s partner’s clothes? She reminded herself that she didn’t just want him, she wanted to break his control. Wanted to see what he was capable of. All that energy of his could, she thought, be put to good use.
She snapped her fan closed and gave him a winsome smile. “I would love to dance.”
* * *
Miss Grant’s reaction to his greeting had been almost comical. Considering how composed she had been in their two previous encounters, including the one where he had nearly stumbled over her in the street, it had been intriguing to find her so flat-footed. By the time he led her out onto the dance floor it was clear that she had returned to her usual blasé demeanor. He hadn’t questioned that jaded, seductive persona before, but seeing her taken unawares it had been clear that it was, indeed, a persona. In her surprise she had seemed softer. Vulnerable. Open. She had wet her pink lips while considering how to reply to him, and he had been tempted to kiss her there in the ballroom. He usually wasn’t taken by the sweet and gentle, but it had just made her seem… naked. Delectably, sensually naked.
Now, thank God, she was dressed both literally and figuratively as they prepared to make their way through the intricate steps of a classic country-dance. It would never do to have his name in the scandal sheets for kissing an American girl on the dance floor of the Lyle Summer Ball. He would prefer, in fact, if his presence here weren’t noted at all. He didn’t care much for entertainments and didn’t fancy having to refuse a flurry of invitations if hostesses thought he might be willing to attend theirs.
As the orchestra struck up the tune she asked him, “Would you like to play a game?”
He smiled at her. “Always. What are the rules?”
“Whoever makes the most correct guesses about the other wins.”
On one level her proposal alarmed him. Nothing good could come of anyone attempting to dig into his history. However, Robert loved games and he especially loved games he knew he could win. He had received his first dossier of information about her this morning. She was younger than he thought, only twenty-two, and far richer than he could have imagined. “I find myself intrigued. Who goes first? “
“I will,” she said smugly. “You were hurt very badly by someone you loved.”
The dance separated them, but when they came back together he said, “Too vague. For instance, I think that you,” he trailed off, narrowing his eyes as though looking deeply into her, “have traveled extensively.”
She snorted. “Too vague.”
He added, “With your mother's shipping company.”
Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed in suspicion. When their dance brought them back together she scoffed, “Information you learned from my cousin does not
“I was going to ask you to dance, but perhaps you would like some fresh air instead?”
Imogen was so surprised to hear his voice that she stopped her fan in mid-flutter. “Mr. Bittlesworth.”
He sketched a bow. “At your service, Miss Grant.”
Had she conjured him from her fervent imaginings? Her thoughts scrambled for purchase. Here he was and she hadn’t considered how she would proceed in this situation. Which would be better? A turn out-of-doors where they might find some privacy in the gardens? Or the tension born of touching politely in a room of onlookers when all one really wanted was to be able to strip off one’s partner’s clothes? She reminded herself that she didn’t just want him, she wanted to break his control. Wanted to see what he was capable of. All that energy of his could, she thought, be put to good use.
She snapped her fan closed and gave him a winsome smile. “I would love to dance.”
* * *
Miss Grant’s reaction to his greeting had been almost comical. Considering how composed she had been in their two previous encounters, including the one where he had nearly stumbled over her in the street, it had been intriguing to find her so flat-footed. By the time he led her out onto the dance floor it was clear that she had returned to her usual blasé demeanor. He hadn’t questioned that jaded, seductive persona before, but seeing her taken unawares it had been clear that it was, indeed, a persona. In her surprise she had seemed softer. Vulnerable. Open. She had wet her pink lips while considering how to reply to him, and he had been tempted to kiss her there in the ballroom. He usually wasn’t taken by the sweet and gentle, but it had just made her seem… naked. Delectably, sensually naked.
Now, thank God, she was dressed both literally and figuratively as they prepared to make their way through the intricate steps of a classic country-dance. It would never do to have his name in the scandal sheets for kissing an American girl on the dance floor of the Lyle Summer Ball. He would prefer, in fact, if his presence here weren’t noted at all. He didn’t care much for entertainments and didn’t fancy having to refuse a flurry of invitations if hostesses thought he might be willing to attend theirs.
As the orchestra struck up the tune she asked him, “Would you like to play a game?”
He smiled at her. “Always. What are the rules?”
“Whoever makes the most correct guesses about the other wins.”
On one level her proposal alarmed him. Nothing good could come of anyone attempting to dig into his history. However, Robert loved games and he especially loved games he knew he could win. He had received his first dossier of information about her this morning. She was younger than he thought, only twenty-two, and far richer than he could have imagined. “I find myself intrigued. Who goes first? “
“I will,” she said smugly. “You were hurt very badly by someone you loved.”
The dance separated them, but when they came back together he said, “Too vague. For instance, I think that you,” he trailed off, narrowing his eyes as though looking deeply into her, “have traveled extensively.”
She snorted. “Too vague.”
He added, “With your mother's shipping company.”
Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed in suspicion. When their dance brought them back together she scoffed, “Information you learned from my cousin does not
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