A Gentleman Says I Do Page 8

  A teasing light glistened in his eyes. “Yes, I was going to ask about your father, but that’s not why I came over, either.”

  “No?” she questioned, feeling a moment of unease.

  “I’m here because I thought you might be disturbed about today’s edition of Lord Truefitt’s column. You did see it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but no, it didn’t upset me.”

  “Really?” His eyebrows rose a little. “And here I thought I would be needed to soothe your ruffled feathers.”

  She smiled at him. “Not in the least. I know I have no designs on you, so what the man wrote is of no interest to me. Furthermore, anyone who knows me would never believe I have set my cap for someone like you.”

  He laid his hand on his chest and made an expression of shock. “Someone like me? The much-maligned Rake of Baltimore? You wound me to the core, Miss Crisp.”

  His antics were so dramatic. He looked so stricken Catalina laughed freely, even though she truly didn’t want to. If only he wasn’t a threat to her father, she would be free to enjoy his humor, his attention, and the wonderful feelings he created inside her. “If I could, believe me, I would.”

  He chuckled, too, and she liked the fact that she’d made him laugh.

  “You do like to tell me exactly what you are thinking, don’t you?”

  Not all the time.

  “Someone needs to, Mr. Brentwood, and I am up to the task.”

  “Immensely so, and one of the things I find impressive about you is your honesty.”

  Catalina’s laughter fell silent in her throat. Oh, why did he have to say that? She was not honest with him about A Tale of Three Gentlemen. She wondered again if she should tell him about the other two parts of the story. She wanted to hold out hope her father would make it back to Town and speak to Mr. Frederick before the rest of the series was published. Was she being foolish by waiting, or was she being prudent and avoiding unnecessary problems?

  She lowered her lashes. “It’s not my intention to impress you concerning anything.”

  “Perhaps that is why you do. And, perhaps since you are not upset about Lord Truefitt’s column today, it won’t upset your father, either.”

  “My father?” she asked, lifting her gaze to his once again. “Oh, I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose he will be livid when he reads it.”

  “That would be welcome news,” Mr. Brentwood said.

  “Oh, but he would never show it.”

  “Really?” he questioned. “Why not?”

  “He’s much too kind. He would never tell Lord Truefitt or anyone else they should try harder to write better poetry. I mean, starting a verse with ‘roses are red, violets are blue’ shows he has no talent for poetry. He should leave that to distinguished poets and stay with his gossip, which he does much better.”

  Iverson laughed heartily.

  Catalina was disconcerted for a moment. “What has caused you so much amusement?”

  “You.”

  Her eyes widened. “Me?”

  “Yes. I was hoping when your father saw your name linked with the Rake of Baltimore in the gossip pages he would fear your reputation was in jeopardy and come running home to protect you. But you didn’t see past the bad poetry.”

  Catalina’s breath shortened in anticipation of what his words implied. She hadn’t thought about the possibility of the article bringing her father home. But it had been impossible to think at all earlier with Mable and Agatha’s constant chatter. But Mr. Iverson could be right. No doubt scandalous gossip about her would bring her father home quickly. And then he could convince Mr. Frederick to return the last of A Tale of Three Gentlemen.

  Her spirits lifted.

  “Perhaps you are right. This might be just the ticket to bring Papa home. He’s never been away this long before.”

  “Perhaps his muse has led him on a merry chase, and he can’t find it.”

  She smiled again. “I think that is a given, Mr. Brentwood.”

  “Well, if Lord Truefitt’s column today doesn’t bring him rushing back, we can always up the stakes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can make sure several people overhear me saying I intend to make you my next conquest. Or, I could make it even worse by pronouncing we will be married before the Season starts.”

  Catalina’s heart started pounding. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Crisp, by now you should know I will dare anything.”

  “But that would be outrageous. Clearly Lord Truefitt has already written enough.”

  He stepped closer to her and then looked down at his feet to make sure the toes of his boots touched the toes of her light-brown slippers. Catalina looked down, too. Suddenly the friendly atmosphere around them changed to something very intimate.

  When they both looked up again, their gazes met, and he said, “Maybe and maybe not.”

  He was so close she felt heat radiating from his body. She suddenly felt as if a swarm of butterflies had been let loose in her stomach. “No one would believe you if you spoke such rubbish.”

  “Oh, I think they might if I was caught stealing a kiss from you right here in your garden.”

  Catalina suddenly felt mesmerized by him. A kiss? Why did the thought of a kiss from him leave her breathless?

  “You wouldn’t,” she whispered, knowing she very much wanted him to do just that.

  He reached up and caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers as he had that first day they met. And his touch sent sizzling tingles all through her.

  “You know I would,” he said huskily.

  “But Aunt Elle could come out at any moment.”

  “She probably will, but right now, I want to kiss you, and it’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  His tone, his closeness, made her stomach quiver deliciously. She had no desire to move away from what he was promising. Teasing warmth tingled across her breasts and spiraled down to the deepest part of her abdomen.

  He lowered his head and leaned his body forward until his lips lightly grazed hers with the merest amount of pressure. The contact was sweet, light, and enticing. Catalina didn’t know why, but her eyes closed and her lips parted naturally the moment his touched hers. She felt the strong beat of her heart in her ears. His lips were warm, soft, and moist. They lingered over hers as if he were savoring something deliciously rare. A small sigh of wonderment escaped her lips. She drank in the moment and enjoyed all the sweet sensations that bubbled up inside her at the momentous occasion of her first kiss.

  He lifted his mouth no more than an inch from hers. His gaze locked on hers, and he whispered, “That sounded like a very satisfied sigh.”

  He raised his head only a little and said, “Did you know I’ve wanted to kiss you since I saw you walking toward me in your home?”

  She moistened her lips and lowered her head as she shook it. Could she be as truthful and tell him he had reminded her of the hero in all her romantic dreams?

  “Look at me,” he said and tenderly placed his fingertips under her chin, lifting her head. “It’s true. You are a very desirable lady.”

  Something amazingly inviting seemed to curl protectively around her, and she felt comfortable saying, “I’ve been reading about kisses since my father gave me my first book of romantic poetry when I was fourteen years old, but I—”

  “But this was the first time you’ve been kissed, right?”

  She nodded. “I didn’t know it would be so…”

  “Tell me.” He smiled sweetly. “So what?”

  “Delicious and thrilling. I wanted to savor it.”

  He smiled. “So it was everything you expected it to be.”

  “No, more. I didn’t know I would be so eager for another kiss.”

  He chuckled softly. “I didn’t expect you to say that, but I’m glad you did.”

  She moistened her lips and then said, “The kiss was also softer than I expected it to be.”

  He rais
ed his hand and traced the curve of her upper lip with his middle finger as his forearm rested gently, softly on her chest between her breasts. The intimacy of his touch made her abdomen tighten.

  “Ah,” he said. “I can fix that. A first kiss should always be soft, tender, and memorable, but the second can and should be passionate.”

  “Passion?” she whispered. “I’ve read about it so many times.”

  “And now you want to feel it?”

  “Can I?” she asked eagerly.

  “Oh, yes. I’ll show you.”

  His lips came down to hers again, but this time with confident, commanding pressure. She responded by instinct and parted her lips. His tongue darted inside her mouth and explored with slow, sensual movements. Catalina’s stomach tightened, and her heart fluttered erratically.

  The kiss deepened as his lips moved urgently, seductively over hers. She loved the feel of his lips, the taste of his mouth on hers. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from sighing again, because the pleasure was so immense.

  Now she knew why Juliet didn’t want to live without Romeo’s kiss.

  Without thinking, Catalina leaned into his body. His hands circled her waist, slid to her back, and suddenly she was caught up against his strong chest. Her arms automatically wound around his neck. Wondrous curls of unexpected pleasure came instantly alive inside her, and she melted against him. She had often dreamed of being held in a man’s powerful embrace, her breasts flattened against his wide chest, but she hadn’t been able to imagine just how heavenly it actually felt.

  Catalina gasped over and over again as his tongue brushed hers, teasing her with featherlight contact. His gentle hands and strong arms pressed her closer and closer to the warmth and hardness of his body.

  It was a heady, powerful experience, but all too soon, his lips left hers. His arms relaxed around her.

  With a ragged, husky voice, he whispered, “I think we may have tempted fate enough for one afternoon.”

  He let go of her slowly. The magic of the moment was broken. Catalina inhaled a deep breath and stepped away from him, too, quickly putting the lawn chair between them.

  Had she actually told him she was eager for another kiss? She cringed inside. What had made her say such a thing? And to this man!

  She cleared her throat and said, “Why did you say you came to see me?”

  A half chuckle whispered deeply from his throat. “A kiss will do that to you.”

  “What?” she asked with genuine curiosity about what he thought.

  “Make you forget everything but the moment of the kiss.”

  “Yes, I believe that’s true.”

  “But to answer your first question, remember, I wanted to make sure you weren’t too upset about Lord Truefitt’s column.”

  “Yes, right, and no, as I’ve told you—” She realized she was mumbling. “I’m… curious about something, Mr. Brentwood.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you—?” She cleared her throat. “I mean, do gentlemen feel the same extraordinary sensations women do when they are kissed?”

  He stepped closer to the chair that separated them. “You are asking if I felt the same way you did just now.”

  She swallowed hard, not sure she really wanted to know the answer, but nodding her head anyway.

  His gaze locked onto hers. “Yes, Catalina. My God, yes.”

  “I’ve read about this, this magic, this desire between a man and a woman, but I never could have imagined how it actually feels.”

  “It’s quite intoxicating, is it not?”

  “Exhilarating and invigorating, too,” she answered softly. “Thank you for kissing me.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  Iverson’s gaze swept easily down her face and then back up to her eyes. His smile was so sincere she started to reach for him.

  Catalina heard the back door open. She looked up to see Aunt Elle coming down the steps, wrapping her shawl about her shoulders. Catalina let out a wispy breath of relief. Her aunt was just in time to save her from saying something she would regret. She had been just about to ask Mr. Brentwood to kiss her again.

  Seven

  We have met the enemy and they are ours.

  —Oliver Hazard Perry

  Miss Catalina Crisp had set him on fire.

  He really shouldn’t have kissed her until his grievance with her father was settled, but her allure had been impossible to resist. Even now, as he stood on her front stoop, pulling on his gloves, he was reluctant to leave. He wanted to find a reason to go back inside, get her alone, and kiss her again. But he would have to wait to see her until later tonight at Lady Windham’s party. She drew him as surely as when the hot days of Baltimore’s summers had beckoned him to the waters for a cooling, refreshing swim.

  When he’d first met her, had he really told her he would grab her father by the neckcloth and threaten to break his fingers?

  He shook his head and grunted a laugh. That was not his finest moment. Though in truth, if he’d actually found the man at home, instead of his daughter, he would have threatened Sir Phillip in some way.

  Obviously, old habits die hard.

  Because of his temperament, being the difficult brother had come easy for him when he and Matson first went to Baltimore. And not from want of trying, that hadn’t changed since he’d returned to London. At the time, he and Matson didn’t know why, but their father had insisted they move to America and open Brentwood’s Sea Coast Ship Building Company for him. In England, it was unheard of for sons of a titled man to manage one of their father’s businesses, but no one gave it a second thought in America.

  But Iverson and Matson were Englishmen through and through, and the new country couldn’t compete with their homeland. Their father had died, and they had gotten older. They wanted to move their business and settle in London.

  At first, they had felt as if their father had placed them in exile, even though they had been given a generous allowance. It hadn’t been easy to accomplish anything in the new country. Because of continued tensions between the Americans and the British, Iverson and Matson had to hide their roots in British aristocracy. They worked twice as hard for every scrap of business they obtained. There wasn’t much time for their own pleasure, because they didn’t want to squander the opportunity to form a successful company. Over the course of time, he and his brother had developed a solution that had worked well for them—the good twin/bad twin scenario.

  Growing up, Iverson had always been the daring and adventurous twin. He was the first to jump to conclusions and be ready to do battle. It just came naturally to him to be impatient, intense, and impulsive.

  In business matters, Iverson would take on anyone and everyone, remaining firm on his stand, arguing his point, and sounding tough as steel when he asked for more than they wanted. He never budged an inch on the issue at hand. Matson would then come in after him, acting in a conciliatory and approachable way, willing to compromise for something less than Iverson had insisted on. Their strategy had worked to get exactly what they wanted almost every time. Now that their business was well established and flourishing, their customers happy, the antics of the earlier days were no longer necessary.

  But Iverson’s demeanor hadn’t changed. He never backed down from a challenge, no matter the stakes, as when Lord Waldo had approached him in the taproom of the Harbor Lights Gentleman’s Club last autumn. The weak-kneed ninny had the gall to ask him why he looked so much like Sir Randolph Gibson.

  Without thinking, Iverson had punched the man. It wasn’t that Iverson liked being a bullyrag, but sometimes that was the only thing that worked.

  Iverson turned to step off the stoop, when he saw a gentleman hurrying up the walkway toward the house.

  Sir Randolph Gibson.

  Iverson tensed. Why was that dandy coming to Sir Phillip’s house?

  Iverson had been introduced to Sir Randolph months ago at a ball. He was a tall, robust fellow with a thatch of silver hair that helped giv
e him the appearance of a much-younger man. He was still quite dapper and dashing for a man well past his glory days.

  They had seen each other at numerous parties around Town, but Iverson had never had a conversation with him. It seemed to be an unspoken truce between them that they left each other alone.

  Iverson mentally started sorting through the snatches of conversations he’d heard about Sir Randolph Gibson. The old man was well respected and extremely well liked among the ton, especially with the widows. They could always count on him for a dance at the balls, afternoon rides in Hyde Park, or much-coveted invitations to sit with him in his opera box.

  Iverson seldom saw the dandy without at least one of three cousins at his side: the Duke of Blakewell, the Marquis of Raceworth, or the Earl of Morgandale. Iverson and Matson had laughingly referred to them as his three puppet bodyguards. There was sensational gossip that the three had saved him from losing his wealth in such risky business ventures as a hot air balloon travel business and a time machine. There was also a rumor that the man had been involved in a boxing match over some lady’s honor, though Iverson had his doubts that was true.

  He knew there was no bloodline between Sir Randolph and the titled gentlemen. The rumor was that Sir Randolph had had a long-standing relationship with the cousins’ grandmother. Iverson didn’t know what kind of relationship they had, but he could make an educated guess. No doubt the man’s considerable wealth and lack of legitimate heirs were the main reasons the cousins were so eager to step in and watch out for him.

  The older gentleman slowed his steps when he saw Iverson. Sir Randolph masked his astonishment at suddenly being trapped under the front portico with Iverson and pleasantly said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Brentwood. Beautiful weather to be out and about, isn’t it?”

  The man was good at covering for himself and acting as if he wasn’t as shocked as Iverson at their chance meeting.

  Iverson nodded. “What brings you here?”

  The old man eyed him warily, and his brow wrinkled into a frown of curiosity. “I could ask you the same thing, but if what I read in the scandal sheets today is true, I don’t have to.”