Dahlia'd just bent her knee in a curtsy, but at his words, she froze and then slowly straightened. "I beg your pardon, but did you just announce that I'm late?"

Kirk opened his mouth to answer, but the flash in Dahlia's gaze made him pause. He'd arrived in the library a good half hour early, as eager for their meeting as a callow youth waiting for his first tryst. He'd spent the time imagining how he wished the events to play out, what her reaction might be, how he might best draw her to him-every thought lighting his already heightened awareness. But none of his imagining had included Dahlia staring at him with such a martial light in her eyes.

He slipped his watch back into his pocket. "I was merely commenting on the time. It's ten after."

Her gaze narrowed.

He hurried to add, "Not that it matters, of course."

"No, it doesn't. Kirk, before you say anything more, I must inform you that I'm not here because you commanded me to be."

Kirk frowned. "Commanded?"

"Your note-if I can even call it that-was as rude and insensitive as the remark you just made about my being late."

"I merely gave you the time and place. It was as all notes should be-informative and to the point."

"It was informative, for it allowed me to see that this"-she waved a hand in a circle-"scheme of yours, or whatever you wish to call it, is a waste of time. My time."

Ah. So she's getting cold feet, is she? I should have expected as much. "Fine. If you feel that way, then there is nothing more to be said."

His capitulation seemed to surprise her, for she frowned. "So you think it is the case as well?"

"No, but-" He shrugged. "If you are decided, you are decided. I would never-" He narrowed his gaze. "You are rubbing your arms. Are you chilled?"

"A little," she admitted. "As large as this castle is, I daresay it is impossible to keep it warm in the winter."

"It's cold outside, and getting more so, and you can feel it. Here, let me stir the fire." He grasped his cane and started to turn.

"No, no. There's no need."

"Don't be foolish." He made his way to the fireplace. When he bent to pick up the log, he had to hide a grimace caused by his aching leg. His morning sessions with MacCreedy were more painful than he'd expected, despite the warnings the valet had given him. He tossed in the log and straightened. "There."

"Thank you. That is very kind."

"It's not kindness to do what should be done." Dusting his clothing, he turned to face her. "That should warm the room up soon enough."

"I can already feel it."

"Move closer to the fire and you'll feel it even more."

She glanced toward the door as if it called her.

"Come, Dahlia. We know each other too well to leave things unsaid. If we do so, we'll only mull it over until we can't sleep. We're the sort of people who think, often too much. A good conversation now could give us both a better night's sleep later on."

She smiled. "My father has accused me of over-thinking."

"Many, many people have said the same of me. So we must talk."

"I suppose you're right." She walked around the settee and came to stand near the fire. "I've no wish to cause you to lose any sleep."

"Good." He watched as she held her hands out to the flames. Such delicate hands, too. Hands he'd seen caress a book as if it were human. His body tightened at the thought, and he had to put his weight on his aching leg to refocus his wayward imagination. "Let me make this easier: you no longer wish to partic.i.p.ate in my 'scheme,' as you put it."

She flushed. "You are going to speak very baldly, aren't you?"

"You would have me speak through a filter of politeness?"

"No, not at all. Pray continue."

"Thank you. I did make a suggestion, but it was no scheme. I'd no wish to experience that sort of awkwardness again, and I a.s.sumed that neither did you. Or don't you want to find a mate?"

She grimaced. "I hate it when you use the term 'mate.' It sounds so vulgar."

"Isn't that what we're doing? Two peac.o.c.ks preening before the opposite s.e.x, hoping one or another will notice us?" He flapped his arms as he talked.

Her lips twitched, but she said in a severe tone, "That's not any better."

"The truth is rarely pretty. Not in this case, anyway." He limped back to his chair and sat. When he noticed her lifted eyebrows he said, "I should stand? My leg hurts."

"You could have invited me to take a seat, as well."

"But you were cold and wished to be near the fire."

"Kirk, when you're being polite, you sometimes ask things even though you know the answer."

"That sounds like a d.a.m.n waste of time."

"And you shouldn't curs-" She sighed. "Oh, never mind."

She turned and moved closer still to the fire, the amber light warming her skin, bringing out the faintest hint of red in her brown curls, and catching the red light of the garnet earrings that hung from her delicate earlobes. The earrings must hold special meaning, for she rarely wore any others.

They're pretty, but garnets aren't good enough. She deserves rubies. Rich, red, bold rubies.

Kirk smiled to himself at the thought. She really was a pretty woman, his Dahlia. Beautiful, even, if not in the showy manner preferred by the shallow-hearted followers of fashion. No, her beauty consisted of a purity of line of nose and jaw, and the ripe curve of her lips. Her skin, not the colorless white so favored by the maidens here, seemed fresh and young, dusted with a smattering of freckles that begged a man to trace them with his lips.

She lifted her skirts the tiniest bit and extended one daintily slippered foot toward the fire. As she did so, she moved to one side and suddenly, the light from the fire silhouetted her slender legs through the material of her gown.

His heart slammed an extra beat and he found himself unable to look away. G.o.d, but she's gracefully shaped, with rounded calves and thighs that beg for a man's hand. She has none of this scrawny thinness that's so fashionable. Who could even think of such bone-baggery when faced with such generous, lush curves?

She turned her head and met his gaze, catching him in midstare. His face heated and he blurted out, "You are standing too close to the flames. You'll catch your skirts afire." His voice was harsh, rude even, and she flushed, but after a stilted moment she moved away and he was spared the torment of seeing her fair form outlined before the flames.

He examined the line of her mouth and knew he'd angered her once more. "I'm sorry if I spoke too harshly, but the thought of you bursting into flames is untenable." Actually, I'm the one who's the most likely to burst into flames.

"I wish you'd regulate your tone. You always sound so angry."

"I'm not angry."

She didn't look convinced.

"Really, I'm not. I was merely concerned." And aroused beyond all belief. "So about my 'scheme,' as you call it."

"Yes. I've changed my mind about partic.i.p.ating because it wouldn't be wise. Besides, perfecting such a skill with you wouldn't necessarily transfer to another man."

That was a very good point, for kissing someone else wouldn't be at all like kissing Dahlia. For one thing, he couldn't give a d.a.m.n about anyone else he'd met, and didn't expect to.

But Dahlia . . . she was a different matter altogether. Not that he was-as so many emotionalists seemed to think necessary-"in love," for he wasn't. He was too mature for such nonsense now, but he was far from dead and had to admit that, besides their compatibility, he was beginning to recognize that a certain physical attraction flowed between them as well-which convinced him even more that they should pursue their former relationship.

He regarded her from under his lashes. "I worry for us both should we b.u.mp foreheads and teeth while trying to attract someone."

"It won't happen again. Next time, I shall be more cautious."

The thought of her "next time" not being with him made him want to leap to his feet and roar, but he forced himself to shrug. "That may satisfy you, but I've no wish to appear foolish and am determined to overcome my awkwardness in this area. I suppose if you don't wish to a.s.sist me, then I will just have to ask someone else."

It had been a shot in the dark, but her gaze instantly locked with his. "Who?"

"I don't know. I hadn't thought about it, since you and I had our agreement, but I'm sure I'll find someone." He held his breath and waited.

But instead of recanting her decision, she sent him a blazing look and marched past him, moving so quickly that her skirts swirled about her ankles.

"Wait!" He climbed to his feet and limped forward. "Dahlia, please, just- We had a purpose in meeting today. I cannot allow you to walk away."

At his words, she stopped. Her head bent and he could see where her thick brown hair had been swept up to reveal the delicate nape of her neck. G.o.d, but he longed to press his mouth to that tantalizing spot. She would shiver with longing, and then- "Dahlia, please. I'm trying-" He sighed heavily.

Dahlia pressed a hand to her forehead. His sigh tugged at her heart, although she knew it shouldn't. Not everyone at the d.u.c.h.ess's understood his abrupt ways, and already there were those who mocked him. Her hand curled into a fist. He'd been through so much already, losing his wife and fighting the injuries that had maimed and scarred him. At the very least, he deserved respect and politeness, but he would get neither unless someone a.s.sisted him.

She took a deep breath, and then turned to face him. "If we are going to continue to be friends, then you must stop-" She spread her hands. "You must stop all of this."

"All of what?"

"To begin with, you cannot order me about as if I'm one of the footmen you had standing guard."

"I didn't order them; I bribed them."

"Then you've paid them more courtesy than you have me."

He raked a hand through his hair. "I'm making a d.a.m.ned mull of this, aren't I?"

Despite herself, she was caught by the bewildered look in his eyes. "Yes, but it wouldn't matter if you weren't, for I'd already decided not to continue with this improper plan of yours. We should not be alone even now."

"The door is open."

"True. That saves us a bit, although someone could come along and a.s.sume that . . ." She gestured with a hand.

"I see." He rubbed the scar on his cheek.

Dahlia wondered if he even knew he did it. She'd noticed months ago that whenever he was perplexed by something, his fingers traced his scar, as if in doing so, it might clear his thoughts.

Her heart softened the tiniest bit more. He was trying so hard, and he'd already made so many changes-his clothing, his hair. And rough as they still were, his manners were vastly improved. Even the fact that he'd noticed she was chilled was a step forward from the totally self-absorbed man she'd known before, one who'd lived alone for so long that it never dawned on him that other people might feel cold, or hunger, or-well, anything, unless he was feeling it, too.

He is trying. That's worth a lot from someone who has never made an effort.

She sighed. "Kirk, please try to understand."

"I only want success-for both of us."

"Sadly, your idea of practicing a kiss can only lead to disaster, whomever you decide to practice with." For some reason, that last bit left a bitter taste on her tongue.

Humor glinted in his dark eyes. "Kisses can lead to many places, my dear. A disaster is but one." His voice deepened. "'When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past-For years fleet away with the wings of the dove-The dearest remembrance will still be the last-'" He lifted his brows.

"'-our sweetest memorial, the first kiss.'" She was unable to keep from smiling. "While I can easily resist you, I'm no match for Byron."

"He is one of your weaknesses. Personally-" He curled his nose.

She sent him a rueful look. "As you've told me many times before. You must want to win this argument very, very badly to quote a poet you don't even like."

"I must. A first kiss is of the utmost importance in building a relationship."

"Sadly, with your manners, you'll never get close enough to any woman to offer a kiss."

To her surprise, his grin merely became more wolfish. "It would surprise you, what pa.s.ses as flirtation among the romantic of your s.e.x."

What does that mean?

Before she could consider it, he stepped forward and said, "Come, Dahlia, let's start this conversation over." When she hesitated, he added, "Here. I'll begin." He came to stand before her and bowed. "Good morning, Miss Balfour. How are you?"

His tone and manner were perfect, but so . . . odd and unlike him that while she knew she should be complimentary about them, a small part of her sighed as if she'd lost something.

Don't be ridiculous. She curtsied. "Good morning, my lord." As she stood, she leaned forward and said in an undertone, "Your bow is perfect."

"I have a good teacher. My new valet was once in the Duke of Wellington's employ."

"Was he? How did you come by him?"

"The d.u.c.h.ess, of course. Our G.o.dmother is a woman of many resources."

"So he's been instructing you in-" She gestured lamely.

"I believe the phrase you are searching for is 'the gentlemanly arts.' That's what Lady Charlotte would call it."

"Ah. And for how long have you been receiving this tutelage?"

"For two months now, although apparently it wasn't long enough."

She had to smile. "No, no. You're much better than you were."

He grimaced. "Ouch."

"I didn't mean it that way."