An Illicit Indiscretion

‘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.’

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