“Oh, well, of course, everything Lady Armitage does is sensible.”

Cecilia sighed but did not bother to argue. The truth was, she did not entirely possess the understanding to do so. The mix of immorality and manners practiced by not only Lady Armitage but all the Wisteria Society had long ago confounded her ability to think critically, requiring her to take constant refuge in dissociation. “I intend to investigate. You may stay here and guard the house.”

“No,” he said, taking a step toward her. “I’ll come with you.”

“We cannot go walking together at night unchaperoned.”

He laughed. “How can you say that after having spent the past two days alone in my company?”

“Bad behavior in the past does not mean bad behavior must necessarily follow in the—” She paused, watching guardedly as he took another step closer, remembering his touch against her bare skin as they stood in the dining room earlier. The thought of it made her shiver, and her words scattered away. What had she been saying? Something about bad behavior in the—? “The bedroom,” she said at a guess, and as he grinned in response she realized it had been a very wrong guess indeed.

“So I take it you mean no more kissing?” he asked.

“I most certainly do mean that!” She backed against the sink, but still he kept coming, and now she had nowhere further to retreat.

“But what about your eyes, Miss Bassingthwaite?” he asked. “What message do they give?”

He had moved so close she noticed a tiny, faded scar on his left cheek. So close she would not even have to extend her arm in order to—er, to slap him, of course! He was taller than her, and she had to tilt her head slightly to see that scar and the smiling blue eye above it. Suddenly she became aware how exposed her throat was, and worse, her lips. She looked down hastily.

This was a yet another mistake. The upper button of his shirt was undone, revealing tanned skin. Cecilia had never seen beneath a man’s collar before; it was more titillating than she would have envisioned, had she been the kind of girl who envisions that sort of thing. She tried to look away, but he seemed to fill her entire view, so instead she laid a hand against his chest.

“My eyes are telling you to stand back, sir.”

“Fair enough. But if you want me to do that, you should probably push me.”

“I am pushing you.” Her fingers traced the embroidery on his waistcoat.

He bent his head and murmured so near her ear it felt like a stroking touch, “Harder, Cecilia.”

“But, sir,” she managed to say, despite the fire burning through her wits. “A soft touch is more polite.”

“Oh really?” He kissed her cheek softly. “Was that polite?”

All her nerves clamored to answer. But she contradicted them with determined calm. “I suppose it was.”

He smiled. With a movement as soft as velvet, he kissed her mouth. “And was that polite?”