But it seemed the cowardly parts of him were in charge of his mouth, because all he said was, “What are you doing in here?”
She had looked up at his entrance, and she had a peculiar expression on her face. Not happiness or amusement or the sweet warm pleasure that had suffused her yesterday in the library.
But he could not think about that, not if he wanted her to make it out of his bedchamber in one piece.
She lifted the paper between her thumb and forefinger. “I did not intend to poke about amongst your things. Only—well, I suppose I did. A little.”
It was not a good idea to approach her there, in the center of his bed. He did it anyway.
“Mrs. Perkins let me in. She said I should redecorate your bedchamber next,” Matilda informed him, her voice prim, her fingers still tight on the folded sheet.
“She saidwhat?”
“I was surprised as well.” Matilda unfolded the paper and spread it out in her lap, and Christian angled his head to see what she held.
He felt heat crawl into his cheeks and wished he hadn’t looked.
“I saw this on your desk. It was not hidden. I did not have to search.”
“I can explain,” he began lamely.
He absolutely could not.
Matilda flung the paper down beside her and launched herself toward the side of the bed where Christian stood. Like a great cowering block, he took a step backward and bumped directly into his desk chair.
“I don’t understand you,” she said, crowding forward, pushing him back. Her chemise tied at the front with a blue satin ribbon, worked through a handful of ruffled pleats. He could make out the shape of her body beneath. Her arms were bare and dotted with haphazard freckles. “You arranged all those dinners for my comfort. You told me that sleeping together was not a mistake, that I ambringing you back to life—”
He opened his mouth to speak, to negate her words, somehow tostopthis impending disaster, but she charged fearlessly onward.
“You kept the drawings that I sent you months ago—this drawing of sorrel and buttercups, this ludicrous sketch of a pigheaded man—and my letters, all my letters—”
“Matilda—”
Her cheeks had gone pink, her eyes a darker blue in the firelight. “I don’t know what you want.” She shook her head, frustration evident in the way her mouth pinched at the corners. “I cannot make you out. Do you want me? Do you want—somethingmorewith me?”
He found her with his hands, the soft valley of her waist, the flare of her hips.
“I can’t do this. I can’t be what you want.” But his hands, his reckless hands, said the opposite. He gripped her waist and held her still. She heldhimstill: her small bright form his anchor in a world suddenly at sea.
“I don’t want anything but you,” she said. Blood rushed into her cheeks as the words seemed to register—in her ears, in his. But she did not back down. “I want you, Christian. The person you already are.”
“You don’t,” he said, surprised by the harshness in his voice. “You want us to go back to London. You want to change things—to change this house, to change Bea—”
She reared back, yanking against his grip. “I don’t want to change her. I would never—”
But he had the bit in his teeth now. It was fear and love, tangling inside him, pouring out of his mouth in a discordant rush of words. “You want something I cannot give you. You want someone who can flit about in society with you, someone careless and reckless andyoung.”
“I don’t want that.” Her eyes were bright and furious. “I am not your damned marchioness. Do not paint me with the same brush.”
“How can you deny it?” he demanded. “You have been here less than a month and everything is changed.”
“I took down some curtains, for heaven’s sake! I am bringing some light for you to see by, that’s all.”
“We were fine before you came.” He scarcely knew what he was saying. She was so lush beneath his hands, soft and yielding. Her mouth was a curve made of temptation, and he wanted to give in.
“You were fine,” she repeated. Her hands went to his jacket sleeves. “But were you happy?”
He looked down at her, at the familiar stubborn lift of her chin. What was he meant to say? How could he answer her?
