“We must stop,” he said. “I’ll ruin you, and I know that’s not what you want.”
Amelia blinked. “What?”
Ruin her? She was fairly certain she was already quite ruined.
“I won’t risk the reputation you’ve worked so hard to reclaim.”
She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. So, she did neither and simply stared at the dratted man.
“Here,” he said, reaching out. “Your hair has gone quite askew.”
She submitted while he attempted to fix her hair, her mind racing without a fixed destination, unable to form a tangible thought. Only seconds ago, he’d been about to make love to her against a wall, and it had felt so right. But this…
It felt wrong.
And she only had herself to blame.
He stepped back and assessed his work. “You might want to make straight for the ladies’ retiring room. I’m afraid I’ve done more harm than good.”
She nodded, silent, unable to trust herself to speak.
“We can’t be seen returning together, so I’ll take my leave now.” He made a slight bow and continued around the side of the mansion.
It was only after he disappeared from view that a clear thought came to her.
She wanted to be ruined by Tristan.
The fact was she’d already ruined herself on him.
And she wanted to be ruined again.
What she no longer wanted was acceptance from thehaute ton, but from one man.
Live in infamy with me.
He’d spoken those words to her, and she’d said no.
Tonight, a different answer came to her.
Tonight, she would plant her feet and fight for him.
Chapter Twelve
Tristan’s mansion onthe opposite side of Grosvenor Square came into view, and he wondered if he’d rambled about London long enough to cool his blood.
He’d left the Marchioness of Sutton’s ball without a fixed destination and wandered about for nearly an hour before finding himself back where he’d started the night, at Brooks’s club. But he’d lacked the appetite for booze, gambling, or company, so he’d taken himself off on another ramble and now found himself arriving home.
He’d nearly tupped Amelia against a wall.
That was the long and short of what would be haunting his dreams—and his nightmares—on this and many more nights to follow.
Certainly, he was known as the Dissolute Duke, but in truth, there was nothing all that dissolute about him. Back in Italy, she’d been correct on that score. He was no reprobate who gambled away the family’s fortune on a single toss of the dice. He was no despoiler of virgins. Except…
He was.
And he wanted nothing more than to despoil her again.
Against a wall, if necessary.
