An Improper Arrangement. Kasey Michaels

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      Thea felt for the man; she really did.

      “Shame, then, that he’s locked himself away upstairs, dying.”

      “We always add again. He’s dying again.”

      “Pardon my lapse. The question, however, remains. As the duchess and I will be removing to London shortly, to allow me to practice my feminine wiles before my official come-out in the spring, I don’t see a good ending for any of us, do you? Not with the duchess in mourning and you taking up residence here. I’ve heard the expression going to the dogs, but you’ll be going to the birds.”

      “Is everyone in America quite so blunt?”

      “I can’t speak for America, sir. But I do believe in speaking for myself. The duchess wants you to be my chaperone in London, and you’ve agreed, even as you’d rather poke a stick in your eye. Do you perceive me to be that much of a challenge? The duchess has already informed me my wardrobe is sadly out of date.”

      Gabriel looked at her chest. He really looked at it, making Thea more than a little self-conscious. “What is that thing, anyway?”

      She raised her hands to the fine white lawn fabric edged in a modest row of lace. “This? Surely you’ve seen a fichu before. It’s a large square of fabric, folded into a triangle and then draped round the shoulders and pinned at the center thusly, fashioned especially to—”

      “To send gentlemen running for the card room. Take it off.”

      Thea pressed her hands more tightly against her chest, knowing exactly what lay beneath it. “I most certainly will not. A fichu is worn for modesty.”

      “My apologies, then. I thought the duchess brought you here to marry you off.”

      “You don’t have to be quite that blunt, but yes.”

      “Blunt for blunt, Miss Neville. Then this has to go.”

      With one probably well-practiced move, Gabriel unclasped her small pearl brooch, and the ends of the fichu fell open.

      “Aha. Just as I thought earlier. I don’t know the size of your dowry, Miss Neville, but when it comes to sellable assets, I believe you’ve been hiding yours under a bushel.”

      She slapped him before she could think, and then quickly pulled the fichu tight across her half-exposed bosom.

      “I deserved that,” he said, rubbing at his cheek—she hadn’t measured the force of the slap; she’d simply slapped. Her palm and fingers stung from the impact. “But before you go screeching for the duchess, Miss Neville, there’s exactly nothing wrong with the cut of that gown. I doubt anyone would even notice or remark on it in London. Well, no, that’s not true. I’m fairly certain I’d remark on it. Favorably.”

      “That should earn you another slap, you know,” she told him as he handed back the brooch and she quickly stabbed it into place. “Are all Englishmen like you?”

      “All men are like me, Miss Neville. Hasn’t your mama told you that? There may be whole months go by when we think of nothing else.”

      “You’re not joking this time, are you?”

      “Not if I’m going to be your chaperone, no. We clean up fairly well, have learned our manners, walk upright, but men are mostly animals. When you agree to go into the garden with one of them, you can’t ever be certain the gentleman will be able to keep his…baser instincts in line.”

      “I’ll certainly never go into a garden again with you. Do you have any more lessons for me?”

      “Just one more, at least for tonight. I’m a firm believer in a woman being prepared to do more than slap a man on the forearm with her folded fan and say, ‘La, sir, you presume too much.’”

      Thea laughed in spite of herself. Really, should she be enjoying any of this?

      He took her hand in his, turning her fingers inward to form a fist. “No, take your thumb out from beneath your fingers. Otherwise, when you complete your punch, it might be to learn said thumb is broken. That’s it, thumb pressed hard on the side of your index finger.”

      He had his own hand cupped around hers, fingers to fingers, and gave her fist a squeeze.

      “Now, there’s very little force connected to a punch that doesn’t include some sort of preparation. You don’t simply make a fist and aim it at someone’s jaw—or any other vulnerable area you might consider.”

      “This is ridiculous,” she said, trying to pull her hand away.

      “This, in my experienced opinion, is a lesson more young women should be taught.” He moved her hand until her elbow bent and her fist was beside her, not in front of her. “Do you feel that? The tension in your arm and shoulder? Good. Now we bring it forward, like this, turning your fist and elbow so that the back of your hand faces the sky—yes, that’s good. You’ll land a flush hit that way, without breaking your knuckles—and aim for the lower side of the man’s cheek, near his ear. Like this, and put some snap into it.”

      So saying, he guided her fist forward until, his hand now gripping her wrist, he pressed her fist against his cheek.

      Her gaze went to her hand, in such intimate contact with his face, and then moved up to his humor-filled eyes and held there. She took a breath, swallowed nervously and watched as his pupils seemed to narrow, at last realizing that they sat no more than two feet apart, in the darkening evening, in a garden, far from any other human being, or bird for that matter.

      “You’ve the most amazing eyebrows, Miss Neville,” he said. “They were nearly the first thing I noticed about you. I suppose they might overpower other eyes than yours, but they only add to the mystery of those long dark lashes and deeply brown irises. Is that a hint of gold near their very centers? Fascinating.”

      Thea seriously considered a missish swoon. The touch of his hand, his warm sweet breath on her cheek. She’d acknowledged him as extraordinarily handsome when she first saw him, but she’d not imagined herself in such close proximity to him. Worse, she had this insane urge to open her hand, daringly cup his face in her palm.

      Which was ridiculous, because she barely even knew him, and much that she did know wasn’t precisely the sort of thing to make a maiden’s heart go pitter-patter. And now he was spouting empty flattery, which should be insulting, except that she realized she very much would like to believe every word he said.

      “All right, let’s do it again.”

      “Pardon me?” Thea ordered her mind to stop wandering, since it was treading in dangerous areas. With this man, it would never pay to not be on her toes at all times.

      “I said, let’s do it again. This time, do it on your own, and put some vigor into it. You don’t want the punch to simply bounce off my cheek. That’s worse than a hearty slap.”

      Thea fisted her hands in her lap. “I’m not going to punch you. It’s not the sort of thing women do, and not only is it silly, but it’s ungentlemanly of you to even suggest such a thing.”

      “No, Miss Neville, this is ungentlemanly.”

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