Michelle Styles - Regency Bride - Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match / An Ideal Husband?

‘What sort of arrangement do you mean?’ she asked, attempting to stay upright.

‘Our friendship. Or is everyone chronically addicted to matchmaking in Northumberland?’

‘In my defence, I tried to warn you.’

‘Surely you confided in someone about this? Women always confide in their female friends.’

She glanced upwards to see how he felt about it, but the planes of his face gave no clue. Her heart sank. Of course, he could scent matchmaking wiles. Such men always could.

Her grip on the parasol tightened.

‘Mrs Hampstead used to be Stephanie’s nurse as well as mine. They remain close. If I want to fool my sister, I can hardly confess to Mrs Hampstead. You do understand my reasoning, don’t you?’

‘Perfectly.’

Hattie shook her head. Even the thought made her blood run cold—confiding in Mrs Hampstead. The fewer people who knew about her arrangement with Kit, the better.

‘All I can do is to apologise.’

His eyes widened. ‘Why apologise? None of it was your doing. And I do think I am old enough to see through a simple matchmaking stratagem. I’d have hardly remained single for this long if I didn’t. It amused me to see it happen. Do you think she will tell your sister?’

‘Yes, of course.’ The words tasted like ash in her mouth. Hattie pulled her bonnet forwards. She hadn’t asked for Livvy to list her shortcomings this morning—passable figure, too long of a nose and far too inclined towards sarcasm. And she failed to smile enough.

‘All we are doing is going for a walk, Hattie. Relax and enjoy the moment. Nothing untoward will happen. Nothing to cause adverse comment.’

Hattie hated the butterflies which had started beating in her stomach and the way her jaw hurt from trying to keep a smile. This going for a walk alone was a poor idea.

If anything it emphasised that she wanted to be with him as more than a friend. She liked thinking of herself as independent and not needing a man, but right now all she could think about was how alone she was and how his arms felt when they waltzed.

‘It was sweet of Livvy to ask Mrs Hampstead about newts,’ she said, attempting to keep the subject away from the matchmaking scheme.

‘Rupert is learning a valuable lesson in the folly of trying to please people.’

‘Please people?’ Hattie stopped beside a large pile of stones. ‘It certainly backfired on him. Livvy still likes his well-turned calf muscles, but if his object was to impress her mother, he singularly failed. He is about to endure a baptism of fire. They still speak about the great Hollingbrooke disaster from ‘98 when Mr Hollingbrooke tried to give a lecture on the history of lime kilns and people began to throw rotten fruit.’

He reached out and caught her elbow. ‘Hattie.’

‘We have exhausted the subject, yes, I know.’ Hattie gulped air. She babbled when she was nervous and today was no exception. ‘You have no interest in the great Hollingbrooke disaster and it was wrong of me to bring it up.’

‘Hattie,’ he said again. He stood looking at her with his top hat pushed back, giving him a rakish look. ‘I didn’t go on this picnic to discuss my godson or his prospects. I came because—’

‘We don’t need to discuss why,’ Hattie broke in before he could finish. The last thing she wanted to hear was his proposal for confounding the matchmakers. She needed to end this now, before she started to enjoy his company. She refused to go back to that naïve girl whom Charles had taken advantage of. ‘When we return to the picnic, it will appear that we had a quarrel. The nature of said quarrel will be highly trivial, but on an important point of principle. I will inform my sister that we will have fallen out of civility with each other. After that we become civil but distant acquaintances. The only thing I need from you is to decide how long we stay out here. I’m sorry if my words are blunt, but there you have it.’

She waited for him to agree. Or to at least comment on her rudeness. The solution had come to her in the middle of the night, when she had awoken from a dream about his mouth against hers.

‘Hattie.’ He took a step closer. She became aware of his elusive scent and the way his stock was intricately tied. It was one thing to make plans to counter a dream Kit and another to be confronted with the living and breathing man.

Her mouth went dry. His eyes were a luminous grey and his face seemed suddenly intense and serious. She knew she ought to pick up her skirts and run like the very devil was after her. She stood still. Behind her, some bird burst out into a trill of song.

‘Kit,’ she breathed.

He lowered his mouth and his lips lightly brushed hers. The kiss, if you could call it that, was over in a breath.

Hattie fingered her lips. They ached slightly. Two bits of knowledge hammered through her. First she wanted to be kissed again, more thoroughly and second, perhaps more importantly, he was attracted to her. The realisation made her wary, in case she had mistaken it. ‘What … what was that for?’

‘You wanted a reason for us to fall out of civility. I gave you one.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I refuse to apologise. It was the most agreeable part of my day so far. What happens next is up to you.’

Hattie nodded, and attempted to ignore the way her heart thudded. ‘You expect me to pick up my skirts and run as if the devil is after me?’

He tilted his head to one side. The grey in his eyes deepened. ‘Did I mistake the moment?’

‘You have a funny idea of women.’

A dimple showed in the corner of his mouth. ‘You don’t think it was enough. You want more.’

‘I am made of sterner stuff and fail to wilt when someone seeks to mock me. In any case, a simple quarrel over the Romans would have sufficed.’ Hattie concentrated on a particularly nondescript piece of rock. Her mouth ached and she knew she wanted more, but that went beyond the bounds of propriety. She refused to get herself into a situation where she jeopardised her reputation. ‘Your choice of topic leaves a lot to be desired.’

‘You want to be kissed again. Immediately and more thoroughly.’

‘You are being ridiculous.’ Hattie pressed her lips together and attempted to banish the strange quivering in her stomach. ‘I never said anything of the sort.’

‘You told me to pick the topic and I have. It is far better to fall out of civility over something like a kiss than over anything else.’

‘The question of whether or not I want to be kissed by you is inappropriate.’ She crossed her arms over her breasts and tried to ignore the way they felt. ‘Completely and utterly inappropriate. I could hardly confess to Stephanie that I fell out of civility because of a kiss! Imagine the commotion.’

‘But you do want to be kissed.’ He cupped her cheek with firm fingers. She fought against the impulse to turn her face into his palm. ‘It is in your eyes.’

‘In my eyes?’

His thumb traced the outline of her mouth.

‘And your lips.’

He lowered his head. This time his kiss was slow and coaxing. Instead of merely brushing her lips, he tasted and explored. Slowly and steadily. Tiny nibbles at her lips made her stomach contract and warm pulses shoot through her.

Hattie brought her hands up and rested them on the solid broad cloth of his coat. His hand moulded her body to his. At the insistent pressure, her lips parted slightly and she tasted the cool interior of his mouth. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the sensation rippling through her. It made the memory of Charles’s kisses seem like poor milk-water.

He groaned and deepened the kiss, drank from her. His hand tangled in her hair, pushing her bonnet off her face. He rained kisses down her cheeks, her eyes and her nose before returning to plunder her mouth.