The Rake's Proposal. Sarah Barnwell Elliott

occupied before his arrival—and nodded at the smaller chair across from it, indicating that she should sit as well.

      She still hesitated in the doorway, sensing that the situation was beginning to get out of hand. “I really should go to bed. I have a lot to do tomorrow, but thank you….”

      Even as she turned down his offer, he rose from his chair, walked to the doorway where she stood and lightly grabbed her by the hand, placing her glass of brandy in it. His touch was hot, and his unsettling eyes never left her face—“no,” apparently, was not an acceptable answer. He returned to his seat, and Kate had no choice but to sit down as well. She gulped, her nervousness threatening to overwhelm her. He gazed at her with a mixture of amusement and curiosity, and she raised her chin in annoyed defiance. Damn him. She didn’t know why he was forcing her to stay. She didn’t really know him, didn’t know what to say to him…the last thing she wanted to do was have a drink with this strange man in the middle of the night, and she suspected he knew it.

      “Strange.”

      “What?” Kate asked in alarm, afraid he’d somehow read her unkind thoughts.

      “You’re not at all as I remembered you. I’d say you’ve definitely improved.”

      “I’m not exactly sure if that qualifies as a compliment or not, as you give it at the expense of how I used to look.”

      “Will you toss your brandy at me, perhaps?”

      Kate blushed furiously, damning her fair complexion as she did so. She knew he was just toying with her, but something in his eyes—their darkness and the way his gaze moved over her body—made her feel like she was being seriously seduced.

      She had to get out of there. It was getting far too dangerous. She’d have her drink as quickly as possible, and then make haste for her bedroom without wishing him a good night.

      Resolved, Kate put her glass to her lips and drank: a big, hearty gulp. And therein lay her mistake. Somewhere on the way down the brandy made a wrong turn, and she ended up choking, spilling her drink down the front of her robe. Spluttering, she scraped back her chair and rose abruptly. This brought him even closer, handkerchief in hand.

      “Steady, now. It’s not a race. One would almost think you were trying to get foxed, Miss Sutcliff.”

      Kate could hear the amusement in his voice—he was hardly trying to conceal it—and despised him all over again. She’d never been so embarrassed, and her face was just as red from shame as it was from coughing. How had she allowed herself to get in this position? What respectable young lady in her right mind answered the door in her dressing gown so late at night? Perhaps she wasn’t in her right mind at all—she’d long suspected it, anyway. At the very least she was foolish.

      As she continued to cough, he moved behind her to pat her on the back. After a minute passed and her coughing subsided, his pats slowed, his hand rubbing her gently and finally going still, its motionless weight practically burning her despite the thickness of her robe. Kate went motionless as well, almost violently aware of his large presence, so close to her body. He touched her with only his hand, never straying from the top of her back, and yet her whole body felt his caress. Her skin seemed to tighten, and she felt hot from the tips of her toes to every strand of hair. The feeling was so unfamiliar, she swayed under its intensity, unsure whether she was ill or well.

      He wrapped his arm around her waist to quiet her unsteady form and slowly, deliberately, turned her around in his arms. Kate looked up, her body separated from his massive chest by mere inches, and made yet another great mistake. She looked into his eyes and became mesmerized by their color. Gold had smoldered into deepest, velvet brown, and she turned to liquid beneath his dark gaze.

      Any air separating them vanished. Body touched body, and lips touched lips. She couldn’t think, didn’t want to think, didn’t want his kiss to end. He tasted of brandy, his mouth at once soft and hard. Slowly, her lips parted, surrendering without a fight, without the realization that she was surrendering.

      And then it was over.

      He released her and moved away to create a wall of space between them.

      “I think you need to go to bed.”

      Kate desperately tried to regain her composure. She couldn’t quite understand what had happened, or how, or what was happening now. So close just moments ago, he had resumed his seat at the desk and was in the process of refilling his glass. She shook her head, trying to clear it and make sense of his words.

      “I think you need to go upstairs,” he repeated, his voice level, even cool.

      She simply stared back, the shock of what had happened setting in. Here she was, making a conscious effort simply to remember to breathe, and he looked calm enough to pick up a newspaper and read. Shame crept over her yet again that evening.

      And she was angry. Furious, in fact.

      Kate grabbed the nearest object at hand, a massive copy of Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson. Anger willed that book to fly, and as it traversed the air, heading toward the desk, she fled from the room without a backward glance.

       Chapter Two

       E arly the next morning, Kate was seated at her dressing table, her brow furrowed in concentration. An impossible tangle of threads was spread out in her lap, the result of her clumsy efforts at embroidering a handkerchief for her brother—not something to be attempted again. Her sewing skills, along with her skills in just about every other feminine art, were minimal.

      “Is everything all right, Miss Kate?”

      She pricked her finger as she looked up from her work. Her lady’s maid, Mary, had just entered the room, a large basket of clothes in her arms. No, she answered Mary silently, everything is quite wrong. Even after she’d dashed out of the study last night, she’d been kept awake by images of dark, golden skin and warm, amber eyes. She hadn’t fallen asleep until dawn had begun to break.

      “I’m fine, Mary—just woolgathering.”

      Mary lowered the basket onto the bed, where she proceeded to fold the clothes with efficiency. She was not, apparently, particularly interested in what Kate was woolgathering about, and opened her favorite topic instead. “So. Tonight’s your brother’s engagement party…and your first real excursion into society. It could hardly come too soon.”

      Kate rolled her eyes. Since her mother had died when she was just a baby, in many ways Mary had taken her place. Bossy, she was, and far too familiar. “Oh, Mary, please let’s not broach this subject quite yet. I’ve only just arrived here.”

      “I can’t help it, Miss Kate. I’m just pleased that one of you will finally marry, even though I never suspected Lord Robert would be the first. Lady Charlotte Bannister must be a rather forceful young woman to have encouraged such honorable behavior in your brother.”

      Kate had met Charlotte for the first time yesterday, and thought forceful was an apt, if understated, description. “I suppose.”

      “And his wedding couldn’t have come at a more convenient time. Now you’ll be able to enjoy the full season, dear, and have the proper coming out that you deserve.”

      “I’m twenty-four, Mary—an age hardly conducive to a proper coming out.”

      “Well, you weren’t much to look at when you were eighteen—”

      Since that particular wound had been reopened by Benjamin Sinclair only the night before, Kate answered with unusual heat. “Thank you, Mary, for putting my nerves at ease.”

      Mary looked heavenwards for patience. “What I was going to say, m’lady, is that it wasn’t until the past few years that you’ve really come into your own anyway. It’s most unfortunate that your father’s illness prevented you from coming out sooner, but sometimes waiting can work to one’s advantage.”

      Kate grumbled inaudibly and rose from the dressing table. She couldn’t argue. Robert’s