Revealed by Kate Noble Page A

of hers. And then, deftly, he cast it away.
    “Is that your sole trick? One would think you’d have a more expansive repetoire.”
    Phillippa recoiled as if stung. Haughtily, she stepped back. Looked down her nose at him. As best she could, at any rate.
    “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
    “I’m sure you do,” he retorted. “Your plan is ridiculous, and yet you try to persuade me with coy looks and a hand on my shirt. You tried this ploy on me before, if you recall, and it didn’t work that time, either. Perhaps you’re confusing me with your much-sought-after Marquis?” He leaned back languidly against the shelves as she stood straight, holding her ground. “After all, that little maneuver seemed to work wonders for you in your competition to entrap the poor sod.”
    Phillippa felt her smile falter. “You are aware of a . . . competition?”
    He snorted. “My congratulations. As of our last meeting, you were making great ground with Broughton. I doubt Lady Jane could possibly be faring as well.”
    She stared at him, unable to countenance this hard talk with the mild man who presented it. “I daresay I am making great strides with Broughton. Not two days ago he took me on a private picnic; we got to know one another better. It was very pleasant.”
    “I’m certain it was. The dewy grass is far more pleasant for getting to know someone than the lid of a sarcophagus.”
    Phillippa almost smiled. In point of fact, the picnic with Broughton had been an exercise in her own agility as a flirt. Oh, she made certain that Broughton did not tempt her to feel that dewy grass, but every syllable of conversation was so loaded with double and triple meaning that Phillippa herself didn’t know what was being said half the time. Such discourse was the Ton’s stock and trade.
    So she had to admit: Speaking frankly to Marcus Worth was so refreshing, it smacked closely of being entertaining.
    But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t defend herself against his playful taunting.
    “I can assure you, Mr. Worth, that my . . . meeting with Broughton on the sarcophagus lid was perfectly comfortable. Why, he almost made me forget the cold. And I’ll have you know, I never forget anything.”
    At that, Marcus shouldered himself away from the shelves, and with easy, lazy shuffling, came to stand directly in front of her. His hand playing on his chin, and a twinkle in his eye, he asked, “You said he almost made you forget the cold?”
    She nodded.
    “Well then”—he smiled—“you’re, er, meeting, didn’t go as well as you think.”
    “My meeting went very, very well,” she retorted, watching his every move suspiciously.
    “I don’t think so. You see, if it had gone well, you would have burned through that sarcophagus lid, never mind its temperature at the start.”
    “Oh, and you would know, would you?” She narrowed her eyes, cocked her head to the side.
    “I would. But more’s the pity,” he whispered, leaning into her, “you don’t.”
    It was the smallest thing, really. No reason that this little taunt should have gone any further. Except—her eyes flicked to his mouth, that wry corner lifted, the hint of white teeth shining through. Curiosity flickered in her belly. But he was watching her intently, she knew, so she would just step back, remain passive, cool.
    But she didn’t. Suddenly, the gap closed between them, and his lips were on hers.
    This was new.
    This was different.
    Because this kiss she felt to her toes. This kiss hit every single one of her senses with its delicate force. And this kiss made her forget that she shouldn’t be kissing him.
    Whereas Broughton had felt the need to press her back, Marcus Worth did not overpower her. In fact, he didn’t touch her, except for his mouth on hers. But she could feel everything. His strength, his warmth. His arms remained at his sides, in his pockets, but she knew that had he touched her, his hands would run through her hair, graze her jaw,