An Illicit Indiscretion

Elisabeth reconsidered her earlier preference. First names might preserve anonymity but using them also took away all formality. The sound of her name on his lips was positively intimate in the confines of a carriage at night. This was a man who could turn a woman’s head with little or no effort. She had to be careful or he’d be coaxing all of her secrets out of her.

‘I’d prefer to keep that information to myself.’ She sounded so prim, so very much like…her mother. Elisabeth fought the urge to cringe. Here she was in a carriage with a dashing stranger who hadn’t decided she was a bluestocking freak yet, and she sounded like a governess.

‘I’d prefer to know a little bit more about the company I keep. Surely you’re just a teeny bit curious about me, too. It’s an hour to Greenwich so I have a proposition for you.’

A proposition.

A deliciously wicked tremor skittered down her spine. This man wasn’t suitable company at all, and to think he’d made her mother’s guest list. What had her mother been thinking? Maybe thoughts hadn’t had anything to do with it. She was testament enough that good judgement seemed to fly right out of the equation when faced with the handsome charmer sitting across from her. For all of her carefully laid plans to see the comet, she’d jettisoned them rather quickly at his offer of a ride.

Of course, accepting the ride was only good logic. She could defend her choice to some extent. It stood to reason it would be a faster, more direct option than finding her way on her own. But now, the logic was starting to shift.

‘What kind of proposition?’ Elisabeth crossed her legs in a nonchalant gesture and hoped she sounded more sophisticated than she felt.

‘A game of Consequences. I’ll ask you a truth and you can decide to answer it or not.’

‘And the consequence for not answering?’ Elisabeth asked just a little bit breathless at the possibilities. This carriage ride was fast becoming something more than expedient transport. It was becoming freedom, a chance to be someone else besides Viscount Graybourne’s daughter. For a brief while she could be free from the confines of a life that stifled much of the person she actually was. Meeting Dashiell-The-Handsome-Stranger was becoming a once in a lifetime opportunity just like the comet and she was going to seize it.

He gave her a wide smile and she knew, just knew, he was going to say something outrageous. ‘Kisses, Elisabeth. We’ll play for kisses.’

That delicious tremor made a return journey down her spine. Why not? If anyone found out she’d been alone in a closed carriage with a man, no one would care what they’d done in it. The sin was already committed if they played for kisses or not. She might as well go the distance. In the last twenty minutes she’d committed almost every sin known to debutantes. It seemed a very short fall to include this one to the list.

Elisabeth smiled. ‘Ask your first question.’

Chapter Three

‘What colour are your eyes.’ The question caught her by surprise. She hadn’t expected it to be so simple. But perhaps that was his strategy: lull her into complacency and edge gradually towards what he really wanted to know.

‘My eyes are brown.’

Dashiell shook his head, a disarming grin on his face. ‘No, they’re not.’

‘I beg your pardon? I should think I’d know what colour my eyes are.’

Dashiell chuckled. ‘A woman who climbs out windows cannot merely have brown eyes. Whisky perhaps, sherry, cognac eyes maybe.’

‘Are you suggesting she must be a drunkard to climb out the window?’

‘No, she must be unique. Anyone can have brown eyes. Only a few can have eyes the colour of aged port.’

After four Seasons, she should be immune to such flattery. More than that, she should know such flattery for what it was: empty words. But it was too tempting to play Dashiell’s game and far too much fun. More than that, a very curious part of her wanted to see where it would lead.

‘Unique is so very close to odd, we must be careful,’ Elisabeth ventured. She was flirting boldly now, far more boldly than she’d flirted with the young men of London. She tried to ignore the skittering sensation settling in her stomach. He was studying her intently, his eyes roving her face, resting on her lips in a manner that made her feel utterly feminine and powerful. Perhaps she’d decline the next question simply to explore his unspoken invitation. She ran her tongue over her lips, her mouth having gone dry at the prospect of her audacity. ‘Ask me another question.’