And this was another of her verbal traps. If he said no, he’d seen nothing to tempt him, then that would include her. And if he said yes, and pointed out he’d nearly broken an ankle racing across the garden to meet her—then by his own admission, he had not done so for honorable, romantic reasons.
“What about you?” he asked instead.
“Still waiting for something interesting to happen,” she replied. “Thirty seconds.”
“At least let me know your name. That way I can greet you properly the next time we run into each other.”
She hesitated, clearly weighing the merits of divulging this detail about herself. At last she gave a dainty little shrug. “Miss Smith.”
He could not stop an involuntary grin from overtaking his face.
“Is my name amusing?”
“No, not at all! I’m just thrilled to learn you are Miss Smith, and not Mrs. Smith. I wasn’t certain you were unmarried.”
“What does it matter? I certainly won’t be marrying you.”
Reuben felt the careless rejection like a punch to his solar plexus, until he remembered he was the first one who had said he wasn’t going to marry.
“Time’s up,” she said, and glanced over her shoulders with significantly more interest than she’d given him.
“Searching for something?”
“Better company,” she answered dryly. “Oh look, there’s a frog I haven’t kissed. Maybe this time, I’ll find a prince.”
She strode off without another word, leaving Reuben slack-jawed and dizzy.
Her rejection was what he had always feared: that his uncle was right. Reuben wasn’t just unlovable. He wasn’t worth a single minute of a good woman’s time.
That was why he limited himself to the wicked ones, instead. None of them had ever walked away from him before he was through with her before. Well, none except Lady Dawn. He ground his teeth as the old memory washed over him anew. He couldn’t subject himself to a second unrequited obsession. This time, instead of conceding defeat, he would take action.
Reuben wasn’t going to let the seductive Miss Smith get away. Not without burying himself between her thighs. She might not yet think she wanted him, but before they were through, Reuben would make her beg for his sensual attentions.
And then he’d give her every single filthy thing she asked for.
Chapter 8
Sparks of victory sizzled through Gladys’s veins as she strode away from The Despicable Medford with her hips swaying.
She’d been close enough to touch and he’d been dying to do just that. It was written all over his face, in the catch of his breath, in every gesture. His wants would have to wait. The cat wasn’t done playing with its mouse yet. And Medford was too cocksure about his own irresistibility to realize he was no longer directing the play.
Leaving him speechless made Gladys giddy with delight. She doubted Medford was ever caught speechless, save for when he was asleep, or had someone’s tongue down his throat.
And now, no matter how many other kisses he stole, the only mouth he would be thinking about belonged to Gladys.
She had behaved more coldly toward him than she normally would with a client, though there were certainly some men who sought cruelty and more. Medford was not one of those. He didn’t want to give up power. He wished to exert it. To prove his dominance, and expose women’s helpless subservience to his virile masculinity, or whatever such shite he told himself whenever he glimpsed his reflection in a looking-glass.
He hadn’t known what to do with Gladys, and it drove him mad. She smirked. It wasn’t that a rakehell by definition always knew what to do. It was that a man as pretty as Medford had never had to do anything. He’d thus discovered to his shock that things were different this time. If he wanted her—and they both knew he did—he was going to have to work for it.
But it wouldn’t do to be too predictable in that direction, either. The cat didn’t claw at the mouse without ceasing. Sometimes, it batted the terrified little thing between its paws. And sometimes it gave the mouse a bit of space, luring it into a false sense of safety before pouncing all over again.
So Gladys threw herself into the May Day festivities. She spent the entire afternoon publicly and visibly having a wonderful time that did not involve Reuben Medford. Nuncheon, kite-flying, parade, supper, dancing. So much dancing.
Unlike the last time she’d been in Marrywell, Gladys stood up for every set that she wished to. Despite obviously being a spinster, there was no cringing against a wall, eyes downcast, hopes irrationally high. She simply glanced about the ballroom, made brief visual contact with her target, lowered her gaze, then raised it again, and batted her fan before her face as if the sight of him had caused a blush to rise on her cheeks. Then she turned away and waited for her mark to inevitably beg for a dance, all bumbling apologies for the impertinence of asking without a proper introduction, but unable to let her walk away without spending twenty minutes in his arms.
If only it were a trick she could easily teach the latest crop of pitiable wallflowers, huddling miserably against the drab wainscoting! But this was a skill borne of years of practice.
Though Gladys could now seduce with the barest hint of a smile, her first attempts had been godawful. But determination beget practice, and with practice came confidence, and confidence brought anything she damn well wanted.
