My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3) by Julie Johnstone

nodded.
    “Then I insist you call me Philip.”
    “All right. Philip it is... if you tell me why you think ‘Miss Adair’ does not suit me.”
    “Because I could tell from the moment I first met you that you held English rules of decorum in low favor. You wore a green-and-white striped day gown and you were the only lady without a bonnet to protect her skin from the sun. Your hair was down, and one ringlet kept fluttering in the wind by your right cheekbone. You looked lovely.”
    She drew in a sharp breath. “However do you remember with such great detail what I wore the day we met and what my hair was doing? That was over six months ago.”
    He could lie. He could make some casual, caustic remark. Isn’t that what a rake would do? He found he didn’t want to be a rake with her. He didn’t have to be, either. Since she was not a potential wife for him, he could be himself. “I suppose I studied you with the mind to write a poem about you.”
    Her lips parted and pulled into a shy smile he’d not have thought her capable of if he weren’t seeing it with his own two eyes. “And did you?” she almost whispered. “Did you truly write a poem about me?” She grinned. “I mean, of course, before the one you started about my eyes.”
    Philip chuckled. He wished more than anything he could say that he had, but he wouldn’t lie to her. “I started to compose it in my mind, but you said something biting and I lost the thread of it.”
    He expected her eyes to narrow or something of the sort to show anger or hurt, but instead, she chuckled, that compelling throaty laugh of hers. He found himself grinning, probably like a damned fool. “Why are you laughing?”
    “Because I could see by the tightening of your face that you didn’t want to tell me, but you did anyway. I admire that, and I never thought to admire anything about a man again.”
    The way her eyes glistened in the bright moonlight and the flaming torches made him feel as if he were lost in their blue-green depths. He could not allow himself to become lost. He had two people relying on him to keep their futures secure.
    “How do you know Glenmore?” he asked, instead of telling her what he was really thinking. He could compose a thousand poems about her eyes, her face, her laughter. He could write an ode this very moment.
    “I don’t really know him,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. A damned good thing. He had to stop allowing his mind to linger on her.
    Philip leaned back against the railing so they were facing each other. “That’s good. He’s a rotter.” He didn’t usually speak ill of anyone, but for Glenmore, he’d make an exception.
    She smirked. “How very improper of you, Lord Harthorne,” she teased. “But I daresay, I’m glad you’re not afraid to break a few rules. Do tell why Lord Glenmore is a rotter.”
    Now he’d gone and done it. There was no delicate way to tell a woman the things he knew about Glenmore. “Just take my word for it,” he said.
    Her mouth turned down, and her relaxed shoulders drew upward. “I don’t mean to sound tart-tongued, Philip, but I take no man’s word for anything. And I have a keen interest in learning what it is you know about Lord Glenmore.”
    He leaned closer. “Why is that?”
    “Well,” she said, looking left, then right over her shoulder to see, he presumed, if anyone was near. It was only the two of them and one other couple out there at the moment. She faced him. “My grandfather expects me to marry Lord Glenmore if and when the man asks, and unfortunately, it seems Lord Glenmore is quite taken with my lack of proper decorum.”
    Philip’s gut clenched at the thought of Jemma possibly having to marry Glenmore. “You can tell your grandfather that you learned Glenmore is a sadistic man who takes pleasure in bending women to his will with violent measures. If your grandfather holds any love for you, he will not expect you to marry that man.”
    Jemma bit her lower lip for a