123
" If you don’t mind my interrupting your no doubt fascinating private conversation,” said Richard, lifting a blond brow, “there have been some inquiries as to why our guest is not bound.”
“Or trussed,” contributed Henrietta.
“I have,” said Nicolas, spreading his arms wide, “attempted to explain, but your comrades, my love, seem reluctant to listen. I would prefer not to have rope marks on this coat, if it is all the same.”
“There must be some shackles in the dungeon,” said Henrietta darkly.
“Rust stains,” said Nicolas politely, “are very difficult to get out. My valet would be most cross. And one does not like to encounter Gaston when he is cross.”
Miles nodded knowingly. “Valets, eh? "
― Lauren Willig , The Lure of the Moonflower (Pink Carnation, #12)
126
" Because I like you,” she blurted out, and realized that for once it was true. It was a rather unsettling revelation. “You’re . . . , well, you.” Not just a body on a balcony, not just a pair of lips to blot out boredom, but Alex, Alex who argued with her and watched out for her and woke absurdly early in the mornings to ride with her every day, whether he had the time to do so or not. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Alex didn’t seem to think so, either. His dark eyes were intent on her face, watching her in that way of his, as though he were learning her from the inside out, peering into every little dark nook and cranny of her soul. There were plenty of those to choose from. Dark nooks were one of Penelope’s specialties. He might have wanted her last night, in the still of the bungalow, with the lingering scent of moonflowers on the breeze, but not in daylight, when he saw her again for what she was, brash, impetuous, with her face gone unfashionably tan and curry stains on her habit. He was undoubtedly mustering the words with which to turn her down politely. Penelope suddenly, very desperately, didn’t want to hear them. She jumped to her feet, leaning over to gather up the empty tins. “Or we can just ride on,” she said brusquely, not looking at him. A lean brown hand closed around her wrist. Penelope regarded it blankly, as though not quite sure what it was doing there, alien against the white lace frill of her sleeve. Slowly, her breath catching somewhere in the vicinity of her corset, she lifted her eyes to Alex’s face. What she saw banished any doubts she might have had. In his eyes blazed a reflection of the desire she felt in her own. Nothing more needed to be said. Without a word, he drew her down beside him on the blanket, the blanket that had seemed so prosaic only moments before, but now presented the prospect of a host of exotic and illicit possibilities. Penelope plunked down hard on her knees, catching at his shoulders for balance as she tilted her head down to kiss him, enjoying the unusual advantage of height. “Are you sure?” he murmured, his teeth tugging at her earlobe, even as his hands moved intimately up and down her torso.
In answer, Penelope pushed hard at his shoulders, sending him toppling back onto the blanket, narrowly missing sheer disaster with a fork. She followed him down, bracing herself on her elbows and scattering kisses across his upturned face as he busied himself with the buttons on her riding jacket. The fabric parted, and his hands slid beneath, burning through the linen of her blouse, drawing her down on top of him with drugging kisses that made the noon sky dim to dusk and the rustling of the tree leaves blur in her ears. Penelope wriggled her hands beneath his shirt, feeling the hard edges of muscle beneath, delighting in the way they contracted with each labored breath, with a flick of her tongue against the hollow of his throat and an exploratory expedition taken by her lips along his collarbone. "
― Lauren Willig , The Betrayal of the Blood Lily (Pink Carnation, #6)
127
" It’s just a devilish odd coincidence. I shared a boat – and a carriage – with Balcourt’s sister and cousin."
"I didn’t realise he had a sister."
"Well, he does." Richard abruptly pushed away his empty bowl.
"What a great stroke of luck! Could you use the acquaintance with the sister to discover more about Balcourt’s activities?"
"That," Richard said grimly, "is not an option."
Geoff eyed him quizzically. "I realise that any sister of Balcourt’s is most likely repugnant at best, but you don’t need to propose to the girl. Just flirt with her a bit. Take her for a drive, call on her at home, use her as an entrée into the house. You’ve done it before."
"Miss Balcourt is not repugnant." Richard twisted in his chair, and stared at the door. "What the devil is keeping supper?"
Geoff leant across the table. "Well, if she’s not repugnant, then-what’s the – ah."
"Ah? Ah? What the deuce do you mean by ‘ah’? Of all the nonsensical…"
"You" – Geoff pointed at him with fiendish glee – "are unsettled not because you find her repugnant, but because you find her not repugnant."
Richard was about to deliver a baleful look in lieu of a response, when he was saved by the arrival of the footman bearing a large platter of something covered with sauce. Richard leant forward and speared what looked like it might once have been part of a chicken, as the footman whisked off with his soup dish.
"Have some," Richard suggested to Geoff, ever so subtly diverting the conversation to culinary appreciation.
"Thank you." Undiverted, Geoff continued, "Tell me about your Miss Balcourt."
"Leaving aside the fact that she is by no means my Miss Balcourt" – Richard ignored the sardonic stare coming from across the table – "the girl is as complete an opposite to her brother as you can imagine. She was raised in England, somewhere out in the countryside. She’s read Homer in the original Greek—"
"This is serious," murmured Geoff. "Is she comely?"
"Comely?"
"You know, nice hair, nice eyes, nice…" Geoff made a gesture that Richard would have expected more readily from Miles. "
― Lauren Willig , The Secret History of the Pink Carnation (Pink Carnation, #1)
132
" Jack reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The perfume was growing on him. “How are your blisters?”
It didn’t work. “They sting,” said Jane shortly. “But I didn’t mind that. I didn’t mind any of it. As I would have told you if you had only
listened.”
Jack pressed his eyes shut. Somehow he had gone from being noble and wronged to just being wrong. He wasn’t quite sure how that had happened. “I thought you wanted a bath and a proper bed.”
“There is,” said Jane dangerously, “a vast difference between wanting a proper bed and requiring coronets on my sheets. Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t care what sort of bed it was as long as you were in it?”
The words rang through the small room. Jack’s throat felt sore, swollen. He couldn’t seem to force words out, even if there had been any words to say. Jane’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, her bosom swelling distractingly over the low neckline of her white gauze gown.
“Jane—” Jack managed, but it was too late.
Jane jerked away, knocking over a bag of meal in the process. “I don’t need another man to put me on a pedestal. I have enough of those already.” She wrenched open the door to the drilling ground, the sky flaming red and orange behind her. “Congratulations on a successful mission, Moonflower.”
And the door slammed, taking with it Jane and the last of the light. "
― Lauren Willig , The Lure of the Moonflower (Pink Carnation, #12)
135
" Richard found his quarry in the library.
‘Selwick!’ The Honourable Miles Dorrington flung aside the news sheet he had been reading, leapt up from his chair and pounded his friend on the back. He then hastily reseated himself, looking slightly abashed at his unseemly display of affection.
In a fit of temper, Richard’s sister Henrietta had once referred irritably to Miles as ‘that overeager sheepdog,’ and there was something to be said for the description. With his sandy blond hair flopping into his face, and his brown eyes alight with good fellowship, Miles did bear a striking resemblance to the more amiable varieties of man’s best friend. He was, in fact, Richard’s best friend. They had been fast friends since their first days at Eton. "
― Lauren Willig , The Secret History of the Pink Carnation (Pink Carnation, #1)
139
" Miles was frantically trying to rearrange his cravat and smooth down his hair. ‘Damn. No time to stop off at home and get my valet to tidy me up. Oh well. Give Hen a kiss for me.’
Richard shot him a sharp look.
‘On the cheek, man, on the cheek. God knows I’d never try anything improper with your sister. Not that she isn’t a beautiful girl and all that, it’s just, well, she’s your
sister.’
Richard clapped his friend on the shoulder in approval. ‘Well said! That’s exactly the way I want you to think of her.’
Miles muttered something about being grateful that his sisters were a good deal older. ‘You turn into a complete bore when you’re chaperoning Hen, you know,’ he grumbled.
Richard raised one eyebrow at Miles, a skill that had taken several months of practice in front of his mirror when he was twelve, but had been well worth the investment. ‘At least
I didn’t let my sister dress me up in her petticoat when I was five.’
Miles’s jaw dropped. ‘Who told you about that?’ he demanded indignantly.
Richard grinned. ‘I have my sources,’ he said airily.
Miles, not a top agent of the War Office for nothing, considered this for a moment and his eyes narrowed. ‘You can tell your source that she’s going to have to find someone else to fetch her lemonade at the Alsworthys’ ball tomorrow night unless she apologises. You can also tell her that I’ll accept either a verbal or a written apology as long as it’s suitably abject. And that means very, very abject,’ he added darkly. Miles snatched his hat and gloves up from a side table. ‘Oh, stop grinning already! It wasn’t that amusing.’
Richard rubbed his chin as though in deep thought. ‘Tell me, Miles, was it a lacy petticoat?’
With a wordless grunt of annoyance, Miles turned on his heel and stomped out of the room. "
― Lauren Willig , The Secret History of the Pink Carnation (Pink Carnation, #1)
