Lessons from a Scandalous Bride by Sophie Jordan Page A

and obviously suited.”
    “Because of a mere kiss you think we are suited?”
    “Mere?” His dark eyebrows winged high. He was close enough now. Too close. He reached for her and she knew instantly he meant to prove her wrong, to take her in his arms again and show her there was nothing mere about their kiss.
    She danced out of his range and held up a hand to ward him off. “Very well!” she quickly admitted, hoping to avert the disaster of his lips landing on hers again. “It was . . . nice.”
    That stopped him. “Nice?” he demanded.
    Her heart flipped as she gazed at his face—so handsome in his indignation that the sight made her chest ache.
    “More than nice,” she amended, taking a sliding step backward.
    His gray eyes darkened and she knew she’d annoyed him. “Liar.”
    She flinched.
    “I want you,” he declared, stepping nearer again. “And you want me, too.”
    She shook her head. “You’re making too much of this.” She took another step back and bumped into a bust of some long-dead ancestor. It wobbled dangerously and she quickly turned, grabbing it and steadying it with her shaking hands.
    She exhaled with relief and turned to find him there, practically on top of her. She gasped. Unable to back up a step again without sending the bust careening to the floor, she held her ground. Her hands wobbled uncertainly between them before surrendering and coming to rest on his splendidly broad chest.
    His heart thudded strong and deep against her palms, and she was achingly reminded of his words—could hear them in her head. I want you.
    There was no mistaking his intent even if he hadn’t said such an outrageous thing. She could see it in his eyes . . . smell it on the musky, intoxicating aroma of him. In the way he held his body against her, all tense muscles ready to spring.
    She moistened her lips and asked, grasping at straws, “What about Libba?”
    “Come now.” His stare searched her face, missing nothing. “I’ve promised her nothing.”
    “Formally, yes, no proposal has been issued, but the expectation is there all the same.”
    “Everyone has expectations. Disappointments are a way of life. She’ll forget me in time and favor someone else.”
    Cleo shook her head, her heart thundering in her chest. She doubted that. He was quite unforgettable. She glanced at his too handsome face and then looked away. But too late. The strong lines, the dark slashing eyebrows and steel gray eyes were there, permanently etched in her mind.
    God, she was her mother’s daughter, to lose her head over the first handsome man to pay her such attentions, to pursue her as a hungry predator might.
    He reached down to caress the fat sausage curl draped over her bare shoulder. “Like satin,” he murmured. “Molten chocolate.”
    “I don’t understand.” The words rasped slowly from her lips, her thoughts churning sluggishly through her head. His nearness, his touch did that to her—addled her head. “You’re saying you no longer wish to court Libba because . . .” She stopped, unable to put it into words.
    His lips curled in a half smile, crooked and enticing. “I’m a pragmatic man.” His hand turned so that his fingertips stroked the bend of her throat, where her neck and shoulder connected.
    “Uh-huh.” She struggled to focus, something exceedingly difficult with his velvet touch on her. Was this seduction then? This sensation of sinking deeply, inexorably into a pool of sensation.
    “There’s only one lady I’ve met that fires my mind and blood. How can I turn from her?”
    She gazed up at him, feeling utterly bemused. “Who’s that?”
    He smiled that devilish grin again. “You. It only makes sense that you and I should court.”
    Court? He wanted a legitimate relationship with her? She blinked, some of the fog dissipating as reality fought its way to the surface.
    “You’re mad,” she whispered, and then reminded him. “And I’m no lady. Just a bastard. You can’t mean