“Wait.” The single word emerged like a shot, and it took him by surprise, for he had not meant to speak. He had intended to keep his peace and listen to her leave.
Her movement ceased. “Your Grace?”
His legs moved, eating up the distance between them, bringing him to her in a few long strides. He stopped just short of touching her. “What if you did not go?” he rasped.
“I beg your pardon?” Her voice had acquired a breathless quality that told him everything he needed to know.
He inhaled slowly, exhaled, gathering his wits, wondering if he dared when he had so newly decided to listen to his conscience.Beelzebub and hellfire.He had no choice. He needed her, damn it. “What if you were to spend the evening here in my chamber?”
Her sharp gasp cut through the heaviness of the night air. “I already told you I will not be your mistress.”
And he was about to make a devil’s bargain, for he would gladly sell his soul for one night with Miss Jacinda Turnbow in his bed. “I do not want you to be my mistress.”
That was, admittedly, a detestable lie, for he would like nothing better than to make her his and keep her until his body no longer hungered for her as if she was the feast presented to a starving man. But not in this instance, for the madness in his mind wanted instant appeasing. It wanted her now, any way he could have her, just as long as she wished it, too.
His heart thudded so loudly, he swore she might hear it as the silence stretched. Still, she did not speak. Nor did she move.
Until at least, a swish of fabric and a cool burst of air told Crispin she’d spun to face him. “I am afraid I do not understand what it is that you wish from me.”
What he wished of her.
His cock stirred to life as he thought of just how much he wished from her and how very depraved those wishes were. But for the moment, all he knew was he could not bear for her to go. Could not bear to face the empty darkness of his chamber, to lose the heat of her touch, the alluring reassurance of her curved body aligned to his.
He needed her.
She could not heal him. Nothing and no one could. But perhaps, just perhaps, one night with her in his bed could diminish some of the restlessness in his soul. Perhaps they could lose themselves in each other and in the passion sparking bold and true betwixt them.
“Your Grace?” she prodded. “I cannot remain here. Already, I have made a ruinous mistake in coming to you, and I risk disastrous consequences the longer I linger.”
“One night in my bed,” he bit out. “That is what I wish from you.”
“I cannot.”
Her response was swift, though not convincing. He took a step closer. “You cannot or you will not?”
“Both.”
But still, she did not move to leave.
“Touch me again,” he invited.
“Pardon?” She sounded shocked but also, unless he missed his guess, tempted.
“Just as I said, Jacinda.” Another step, and her dressing gown brushed his drawers. Her warmth singed him. Her generous breasts grazed his chest. “Touch me again, and then answer my question.”
“I do not… I cannot… this is absurd, Your Grace. I must return to my chamber before your little games land me in a desperate situation.”
Her words should have sounded frosty—he suspected they were meant to sound thus—but her husky tone belied her attempts at dismissing him. “Do not, cannot, will not. Or dare not? Methinks the lady is afraid.”
“Of you?” She made a dismissive sound that had him grinning. “I can assure you I do not fear you, Your Grace. What I fear is foolishness. Haste. Making mistakes from which there is no return. Which is why, as you can see, there is no more prudent recourse than for me to return to my chamber and forget this brief moment of indiscretion ever occurred.”
She was lying to herself. He heard the hesitance in her tone. But his pride was a thorn he could not overlook. If she wanted to cling to propriety and pretense, he would not stop her. Though every part of him wished she would stay, mayhap she was not wrong in her wish to flee.
For, one night inside her would never be enough. He would inevitably want more. And what more could she give? She had made it more than clear she would not become his mistress.
“Go, then,” he urged lowly. “Return to the safety of your chamber. Forget you were ever here, and I shall do the same.”
But she did not go. She lingered, unmoving, a shadow in the fragment of moonlight that drifted beyond the window dressing. He held his breath, willing her to remain. Her hesitance set off a new flare of need. Around them, the night was quiet.
