“Since you have no dowry, and no family to pay for the wedding, you will practice the utmost economy and organize it to my scriptures. Strictures,” he corrected himself. “Good God, your tongue is contagious!”

“There’s nothing wrong with my tongue,” Charlotte snapped, at her limit for being insulted and yelled at. “Which you’d know if you took the time to kiss me. You didn’t even do so when you offered for me, you beastly man, you!”

“You were wearing a beard,” he snarled, stepping closer to her, the air around them both growing heated once again.

“Well, I’m not now,” she answered, taking a step toward him.

“Fine!” he roared.

“Fine!” she agreed, her hands fisted, prepared to do more than poke him in the bare part of his chest if he didn’t do the proper thing by her. She didn’t have time to think of just what she’d do to his chest before his mouth took possession of hers.

“Dare! You can’t!”

“My lord!”

“Lady Charlotte, you mustn’t!”

“My lady!”

“Oh, Batsfoam, do something!”

“Short of warming up his lordship’s bed, I am at a loss as to what you’d have me do, miss.”

“Batsfoam!”

Charlotte ignored both of them, ignored the voice in her head telling her that virtuous women did not encourage men to kiss them, ignored reason and common sense and gave herself up to the pure, hot magic of Dare’s mouth. Antonio had once or twice kissed her in the French manner, but the tentative prods and pokes with his tongue were nothing like Dare’s kiss. He was everywhere, surrounding her, overwhelming her, one hand pulling her hips close to him, his thighs hard against her legs, her breasts aching and heavy again, pressed tightly against his chest. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back until she was bent over his arm. But it was his mouth that captured and held her attention, his mouth that demanded and gave, coerced and teased until her eyes felt as if they would roll back in her head. He swept into her mouth, taking immediate possession, learning her taste, making her learn his. He was everywhere around her, inside her, the heat of him thrumming in her blood. She fought the sheer dominance of the embrace, tried desperately to pull air into her lungs, but her body would not answer to her anymore. A whimper rose in the back of her throat even as she gave in, clinging to him, softening her lips against his as she matched his restless movements, wanting to twine herself around him just as her tongue twined around his. She wanted…

“ALASDAIR IAIN MCGREGOR!”

In a dimly lit, dusty corner of Charlotte’s mind, she was grateful to Patricia for ending the kiss. The balance of her mind was furious and muttered things about people minding their own business, but hours later, as she sat in Gillian’s best guest room, gingerly touching her lips, she recognized that Patricia was right to stop them. What she had demanded—a kiss sealing their agreement to wed—and what Dare had given her—a kiss that came close to scorching the blacking off her boots—were two different things.