A Gentleman Never Tells by Eloisa James

faintest interest in any of them.
    She’d always known that she would have no hand in choosing her husband. That was the way of it, when you were a merchant’s daughter—­albeit a remarkably rich merchant’s daughter—­whose father intended that his daughters would marry into the peerage.
    Men would bid on her, and the highest bidder would win. When it became clear that Adrian Troutt was determined to win her hand, she had resigned herself to the fact.
    Adrian had a nice twinkle in his eye, and she could have done worse. She had been a good girl, blindly certain that if she behaved obediently, she and her husband would come to love each other.
    Even if they didn’t, she would have children to think about.
    A hand touched her cheek, a passing caress. “What’s the matter?” Oliver asked.
    â€œYou shouldn’t touch me like that!” she managed, every thought of Adrian flying from her mind. Every time she looked at Oliver, she couldn’t breathe.
    â€œI like touching you,” he said in a low voice.
    â€œOliver!”
    His smile was pure wicked delight, spurring the irrepressible thought that Lizzie didn’t have to marry a man in order to enjoy him. She was a widow, after all. There were all those ballads about lusty widows.
    She could be one of those. A loose woman.
    Heat surged up her neck and into her cheeks. His kisses . . . She hadn’t known that kisses could be so intimate. She would like more of those kisses.
    Oliver’s eyes went heavy lidded, which meant he guessed what she was thinking about. His hand slid off the croquet mallet and onto her bare arm.
    â€œDid you know,” he asked, in that deep voice of his, “that it’s possible to play croquet in a bedchamber as well as a drawing room?”
    She never giggled, but one flew from her lips. “Cat came up with the idea of indoor croquet. She’s never mentioned the bedchamber.”
    â€œYou could play the game anywhere.” He drew closer, his body warming hers, his fingers drifting up the skin of her arm. “All you need is a mallet and a hoop.”
    Lizzie felt her eyes go wide. Oliver’s front was plastered against her back, and she suddenly realized that he definitely didn’t share Adrian’s problem. His mallet . . . well.
    â€œYou’re driving me mad,” he said in rough whisper.
    She twisted her head to see his face. She’d never seen desire like that, not for her, and it was heady stuff. It made her feel as if she’d drunk far too much wine. It was a fizzy feeling, like . . . like happiness.
    â€œIt’s your turn, Lizzie,” Cat called. “If you and Oliver would please pay attention to the game, we could finish this before midnight!”
    â€œWe are coming,” Oliver called, his voice as smooth as could be. Then he said, “Do you still refuse to marry me?”
    â€œWhat?” Lizzie squealed.
    â€œIf you remember, I as good as asked you yesterday. I was hoping you’d changed your mind.”
    â€œI don’t wish to marry anyone,” she said firmly. He was teasing. He had to be teasing.
    â€œWould you mind being seduced by me?”
    â€œMind? Of course I’d mind!”
    He moved so quickly that she couldn’t stop him. He turned his back so she was shielded from the other players and then kissed her hard so that longing rose in her stomach like a storm, making her knees weak and her breath fast. He didn’t stop until she was boneless, leaning against him like a hussy.
    â€œI would not mind being seduced by you,” Oliver stated, his voice as dark and soft as velvet. “But my preference would be to marry you as well.”
    He was a truth-­teller, she realized. He said what he was thinking, no matter how scandalous or improper.
    She looked up, steadying herself with hands on his chest. There was a mixture of arrogance and burning longing in his