She rolled up the remainder of her makeshift bandages and refused to be drawn. But when he asked again, his voice provocative and infuriatingly low, she answered him. “Quits? Indeed. Quite quits. And kisses, my lord, are not for ladies. They are for tavern wenches.” “How instructive. I might never have known, else. Direct me immediately, if you please, to a tavern wench with hair as black as tar.” “There are any number of them, I believe.” “What a broad education you have, most curious. Do these wenches also have lips as ripe as berries?” “My lord!” “I shock you? Good God, you blush!” “Only because you are—” “A sadly rag-mannered rogue. Yes. You repeat yourself. Did I mention limbs? Do those tavern wenches have long, long legs that seem to go on forever. . . ?” Tessie felt guilty again. Other young ladies, no matter how desperate, did not scramble down trees in nightgowns, then proceed to rip even those inadequate coverings to shreds. If she had shown a smidgen of sense, she would have stripped the revolting Grange of his neckerchief, for it was still neatly bound about his throat in a passable imitation of Brummell’s famous “waterfall.”
What do You think about A Rag-mannered Rogue (2012)?
