How could I not?she nearly said, before catching herself. “So do you.”
“But this would be just a formality. Nothing more.”
Did formalities make a woman shiver and yearn the way she was doing now? She doubted it. “That sounds … harmless enough.”
“‘Harmless,’” he said sarcastically. “Right.” And before she could retort, he pressed his lips to hers.
Had she thought his first kiss was the most perfect of her life? She had been wrong.Thiswas the most perfect of her life, so perfect that she closed her eyes to savor the pure heaven of it.
It was soft and easy and oh so sweet. A dream of a kiss. His mouth slid over hers, tender and searching by turns, coaxing a response she could not help giving. She lifted her head to caress his lips with hers, then slid her hands down from his shoulders to his chest. His broad, firm chest.
But all too soon it was over. He drew back and seemed to shake himself before releasing her … and the moment was unfortunately past.
Unfortunately? She was being absurd again.
Meanwhile, he became suddenly formal and wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Forgive me, Miss Bernard. I swear that will not happen again.”
“That awful, was it?” she joked in a feeble attempt to hide her hurt. It was just like the last time. Once again, he was disappointed.
His gaze shot to her in surprise. “Of course not. But I swore this betrothal would only be pretend, and I don’t mean to make you regret agreeing.”
“I already regret agreeing, my lord,” she muttered.
“Then I’ll have to work harder to put you at ease.” He gave her a small bow. “Andyou, Miss Bernard, will have to stop calling me ‘my lord.’ No fiancée worth her salt would do so.”
“Oh. Of course.” She frowned. “Then what am I to call you, sir?”
The impish gleam in his eyes returned. “‘Dearest’ will work. ‘My darling.’ Or, if you prefer something in your own language, ‘mon chéri.’”
She cocked her head. “Were you not supposed to be putting me at ease?”
He laughed. “I am. Supposed to be, that is. But I confess you are far too much fun to tease.”
“You have not answered my question,” she pointed out. “What shall I call you?”
He seemed to ponder that a moment. “Call me … Heath.”
“H-Heath?”
“My mother called my father that. Short for Heathbrook.”
“You are not joking again, are you?” she asked warily.
“Why would I joke about that?”
“I have never heard anyone use ‘Heath’ in speaking to you.”
He smiled faintly. “That’s because before Father died, everyone at Verdun called me Ingram, since I was then the Viscount Ingram.”
“Oh, Ihaveheard you called Ingram. I shall call youthat.”
“You can’t. Although I still have that title, now that I’m earl my friends call me bythattitle, which is Heathbrook.” His eyes twinkled. “When you and I have a son,hewill be called Ingram.”
She eyed him askance, and he laughed. Again. She rather preferredthe flirtatious, teasing Heathbrook to the sober, controlled lord of the manor.
“Look,” he went on. “It’s not that unusual. Many lords have friends from their childhood and schoolboy days who called them short versions of their titles. Even my brothers called me Ingram. And now they will call me Heathbrook, like my friends from Verdun. So, you must either call me Heathbrook or Heath.”
“‘Heath’ seems too intimate,” she said uncertainly.