Page 6 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
The man’s lashes fluttered, then rose.
Dark-chocolate-brown eyes met hers.
Startled, she pulled back her hand and was about to straighten, but discovered she couldn’t seem to move.
She blinked, caught—trapped—in that mesmerizing dark-chocolate gaze.
Drago stared at the vision leaning over him.
A vision, indeed.
Curls of spun gold haloed a face of feminine perfection, of smooth cheeks and a flawless peaches-and-cream complexion. Not a classically oval face but one with a wide brow, delicately arched brown eyebrows, large—huge—summer-sky-blue eyes, and a tapered chin that held just a hint of determination.
Delighted, with his gaze, he traced her features, the pert straight nose and long eyelashes. He registered the perfect symmetry of her beauty even as her lips caught and held his attention.
Lush lips shaded the palest rose, they were the evocative shape one associated with a cherub.
Or perhaps an angel.
Have I drunk myself to death?
No. He hadn’t had that much. He was drunk but not that drunk.
Which meant he was awake, and this was real, and she was, too.
He returned his gaze to her sky-blue eyes and allowed his lips to curve into a seductively charming smile, one all but guaranteed to work on even the starchiest of ladies.
Still holding her captive with his gaze, he raised a hand and gently—very gently so as not to startle her—ran the backs of his crooked fingers down one satiny cheek. “I really would like to get to know you better.”
The slight slur edging the words, uttered in a deep, dark voice that rendered them nothing less than an outright invitation to sin, jolted Meg free of the sensual web the devil had so effortlessly cast. The stunningly effective web he’d snared her in just by looking at her with those gorgeous, fathomless,dangerouseyes.
Abruptly, she wrenched her gaze from his and straightened, registering the combined scents of coffee and whisky. “Good God!” She would have stepped back, but the curricle was only so wide. “You’resozzled! And it’s not even noon!”
The horses shifted, and she turned to calm them. They settled, and she swung back to their owner to find him frowning faintly as if not quite understanding her reaction.
“Yes, well.” Making an obvious effort, he attempted to lever himself upright. “There’s a reason for that, I’ll have you know.”
Clinging to temper as her best defense, she gave vent to a disgusted sound. “So you did this to yourself.” She waved at the horses. “You set out driving a fabulous pair of high-steppers while thoroughly inebriated and put them as well as yourself at risk!”
Her tone had risen enough to make him wince.
Good. He deserves the sharp edge of my tongue.
She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him.
Still appearing vague and puzzled, he looked up at her, then shifted his gaze past her.
Then his lids lowered, and every vestige of returning tension drained from his long frame, and he slumped onto the seat again, this time with his head lolling against one shoulder.
Meg stared, then frowned. She reached out, gripped his shoulder, and shook him—or tried to. He was far heavier and more solid than she’d thought. She jabbed his shoulder instead. “Wake up!”
Not so much as a flicker of an eyelash.
Frowning more direfully, she debated slapping him—not lightly.
“Miss? I think he’s passed out again.”
She glanced at Carter, who’d come up to stand beside her and the carriage.
