Authors: Kate Pearce
Kiss of the Rose (36 page)
She looked up to see that his dark blue gaze had fallen on her and found that she couldn’t look away. Part of her wanted to drop her guard and try to steal into his mind.Then at least she would know his true feelings. But she deserved the words, didn’t she? If he was done with her, she deserved to hear it to her face rather than steal the thought from his mind.
She dropped her gaze and made stilted conversation with the ladies around her, aware of the movement of the crowds, the fact that Christopher had turned to speak to a woman and then disappeared. She could hardly expect him to remain celibate, could she? No woman should expect that from a man who wasn’t bound by the ties of wedlock. Her fingers curled into fists. Except that if she ever caught Christopher in bed with another woman, she would have no hesitation in cutting off his—
“Lady Rosalind?”
With a start, Rosalind turned. “Cousin Jasper.”
He smiled and indicated his companion.“I would like to present a friend of mine, Sir Reginald Fforde.”
Rosalind held out her hand. “How do you do, sir?”
Sir Reginald bowed, his fair skin flushing. “Lady Rosalind, a pleasure. Indeed, a rare and glorious pleasure.”
A corner of Jasper’s mouth twitched upward as he met Rosalind’s gaze. “Sir Reginald was most insistent on meeting you, cousin. He was— How did you put it, Reginald? ‘Struck by your beauty.’ ”
“How flattering, sir.” Behind Sir Reginald, Rosalind noticed the unmistakable looming presence of her betrothed. She smiled deeply into the stuttering young man’s eyes. “If only all men were as poetic.”
Sir Reginald turned quite red.“I’ll write you a beautiful sonnet to your fine eyes. If you permit, of course.”
Rosalind gave a small, tinkling laugh and clasped her hands to her bosom. “Oh, my, Sir Reginald. That would be delightful.”
Incoherent now, his mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish, Sir Reginald allowed Jasper to lead him away, leaving Rosalind facing Christopher. She made as if to move past him, but he grasped her firmly by the elbow.
“If you desire poems written to you, ask me.”
“With your surly and unpleasant attitude, sir, I would fear to read anything you might write.” She tried to shake off his grip, but he refused to release her. “Sir Reginald was only being pleasant.”
His eyebrows rose. “I can be pleasant.”
“I haven’t seen any evidence of it so far.”
He leaned in closer until his mouth brushed her ear. “My, my, you have a very short memory, don’t you?”
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