“Riverdale.”
She barked in laughter. “Never!”
“He’s a good man.”
“Is he now? You know him well, do you?”
“I do.”
“Hmmm. How did I suspect that? We did talk, he and I. How does he know you?”
“I will not say.” To do that would not be kind to a man who would return to the shadows of espionage. Yet, what Riverdale had encouraged him to learn about Eliza danced at the edge of his mind. “And I will not climb into that bed with you.”
Her teasing smile dissolved. “Don’t walk away from me, please. I’ve need of you. Kind, honest you.” She pressed her whole body against him, her head to his chest, her arms clutching him close.
He stroked her back. “Tell me why you ended your engagement last year.”
As if he’d shot her, she jerked backward.
He would not let her go.
Her eyes round, her lovely mouth set, she glared at him. “No.”
“Indeed you will.”
“That,” she said with vehemence, “is none of your concern.”
“If you wish me to make love to you, I say it is all of my concern.”
She stepped to one side to evade him.
He followed.
She wrapped her arms around her chest and strained backward, but was now flush to the wall. “You may leave.”
“No.” He ran his hands up her forearms to her wrists, urged her to open her fists and kissed the center of each palm. “Tell me.”
She flexed her shoulders. Affected by his kisses as he’d hoped, she frowned. “I broke his arm.”
He licked his lips. This…yes, this was a novel bit of news. He put two fingers to her little chin and lifted her face. “Look at me and do not dare to escape me or this issue. Whose arm did you break, my darling?”
“Everhard’s.”
The name ricocheted through his memory. Rich. Second son of a duke.Which one?No matter, he’d never met the man. “The earl?”
She nibbled her lower lip. “He was in my house.”
“I see. He was invited there—or barged in?”
She lowered her lashes. “Yes. There by my invitation. He was last to leave a dinner party.”
“And how did you break his arm, sweet girl?”
“By applying that hold you taught me.” She indicated one in which an assailant was foiled by a quick grab of hand and a twist of the forearm.
He wanted to shout in delight. He’d taught her how to wrestle like a boy. She’d insisted. She’d first requested lessons when she’d turned eight and he’d continued to instruct her for a few years afterward. Why? Because he’d always given her what she wanted…until just now with this business about making love. But well, he had to contain himself, didn’t he, to pursue this intriguing question. “You wrestled him?”
“I did.”
