She frowned, rubbing her wrist and looking back over the room again with a shake of her head. “I don’t understand,” she said sharply. “If you are … if you are capable of this, why …”
“Why is the rest of the house a cobweb?” he asked, still chuckling that she’d had the audacity to shove him like that, even if it had barely moved him where he’d stood. He crossed the room and collapsed into the little reading chair next to his wardrobe, drawing his ankle up over his knee. “Because I don’t need to live in more than a room or two when it’s just me.”
“Poor Mr. Zeller has to live here too,” she pointed out, having turned in slow measures to follow his progress. She watched him where he sat with a wary distrust.
“He also has a room,” he informed her patiently. “I know that might shock you. He does not, in fact, sleep at the foot of my bed.”
“Ambrose, I am not above doing you physical harm,” she told him sharply, making him laugh again.
“Come sit on my lap to do it,” he suggested, low enough that she stumbled backward a little, glaring at him. “What? We will be married in a matter of days. You’ll discover the pleasures of sitting there soon enough.”
“Oh, will I?” she retorted, hissing like a wet cat. “I don’t believe we ever agreed upon carnal contact as part of our negotiations. In fact, you asked me to be unpredictable, if you recall.”
“Did I?” he asked, giving her a lazy, taunting smile.
She clenched her jaw. “Crawling into your bed after our vows would be terribly predictable, wouldn't you agree?”
“For you? I’d say the opposite,” he drawled, dragging his eyes over her body in a way he knew would make her bristle. “Maybe I’ll crawl into yours if you dally too long.”
She inhaled sharply, not descending so far as to sputter at him, but coming as close as a creature like Vix Beck could manage while still contained within that glossy veneer of pure ice. Her eyes glinted, her golden skin practically shimmering with indignation while he grinned at her from his chair.
“Even less predictable,” he continued casually, “would be circumventing the wedding entirely. We’re both here now, after all, in this serviceable, neat, and surprisingly tasteful bedchamber.”
“Do not touch me,” she breathed, all the while a flush fanning over her décolletage as it heaved with increasing speed.
“I think you might be surprised,” he said softly, “what I could accomplish without touching you.”
She exhaled then, all that shallow breath escaping her in a warm gust through her lovely lips. “Don’t.”
His smile widened, his fingers tapping at his knee as he considered her, tilting his head as options played through his mind. Shadows played across her upright form through the open curtains, caressing several tempting little curves along the path of her lilac dress.
“You’re not wearing one of your new dresses,” he observed. “That one screams stern governess.”
She looked down at herself, her lips pressing together, and then back up at him. “Your house is dusty. Why should I risk something fine before I can air the filth out?”
“Oh, darling,” he purred. “You’ll never air it all out. You might as well embrace my filth here and now.”
She glowered at him, her incisors flashing briefly through her pretty lips.
“I could help you take it off if you like,” he offered, thoroughly entertained by her outrage. He rose smoothly to his feet, prowling toward her as she took several rapid steps backward. “Look at you,” he taunted, “getting ever closer to my bed.”
“I …” She turned briefly over her shoulder in horrified realization before snapping back around to him as her knees came up against the foot of it. She snapped a hand out and steadied herself against one of the posts, its gleaming wood catching between her fingers. “Ambrose!”
He stopped himself just a whisper from her, close enough to feel her breath against his mouth, and flicked his eyes down over her face.
“You see?” he said, soft and low. “I told you you would know when I was toying with you.”
She blinked, her lashes clashing with the strength of an orchestral gong.
He chuckled and backed away, turning on his heel. “See you at the wedding,” he called without turning around, “my Vix.”
He did not need to see the way he left her there, standing in his chamber.
He could picture it perfectly well.
And he would, in every lingering moment until he could put her back there again, this time with a ring on her finger.
CHAPTER 12
