“My charm and my face are both impeccable,” he added.
“And as I have already informed you, I have no desire to wed anyone,” she finished. “I am beginning a foundling hospital of my own, and that is final.”
A lovely woman like Miss Prudence Winter spending the rest of her life unmarried, her luscious body never touched, her innocence intact, was a sin in itself. She was a sensual creature. Her kisses had proven so.
“Do you truly wish to spend the rest of your life without ever knowing passion?” he demanded.
A voice inside him told him this was none of his concern. The guilt had never dissipated. It was still there, irritating as ever, and yet, a part of him seemed set upon overpowering it. Part of him railed against the notion of this woman becoming Gill’s.
Because he wanted her to be his.
Bloody hell, there it was. The truth. The hideous, ridiculous truth.
He tamped it down, unable to face it. His brother had to come first. The estates had to come first. And for some reason, Gill had chosen Miss Prudence Winter. Hell, not for some reason—he knew damn well why. She was glorious.
But she had not answered him, either, and he found that curious. Curious and encouraging.
“Hmm, Miss Winter? Do you mean to never again kiss a man? To never know a lover’s touch?” he asked, his voice going thick on the last query.
“You are impertinent,” she charged. “What I choose to do, and the manner in which I spend my life, is none of your concern.”
“But there is passion in you,” he argued. “I felt it earlier, when we kissed. You do not seem like a lady who could happily live the rest of her life without knowing desire, just once.”
He should stop, he knew. Stop talking. Stop goading her. Stop standing so damn close to her in the midst of the night. Stop inhaling the sweet scent of her.
But he could not.
“You do not even know me, my lord,” she pointed out.
And once again, she was not wrong, Miss Prudence Winter. Everything about her was so alarmingly right.
“Mayhap I want to know you,” he said, because he did. In all ways, confound it.
No matter how dreadfully shameful the acknowledgment felt.
And no matter how dreadfully wrong it was.
Pru should takeher brace of candles and return to the safety of her chamber.
Lingering in the darkness of the night, ensconced in the library and far away from the rest of the house guests, was not just foolish, but reckless as well. And yet, she could not seem to make her feet obey her. Instead, she remained mired as she was, rather like the anchor of a ship. Staring at Lord Ashley Rawdon, who had just announced he wanted toknowher, of all things.
Ash, as he had suggested she call him. It was far too familiar—though, she supposed, no less familiar than kissing him had been. It was intimate in a way that was dangerous. She liked the sound of the shortened version of his name.
It suited the handsome devil before her.
“How should you presume to know me?” she asked him before she could stay the question. Before she could leave as she ought.
Had she not learned a blessed thing fromThe Tale of Love? Lingering in darkened libraries when rakes were beneath the same roof was a recipe for danger. The wickedest sort.
She shivered.
“Are you cold?” he queried instantly, taking note.
“Yes,” she lied, because she did not want to admit the real reason for her reaction.
This unbearable attraction to him was not just unwanted—it was embarrassing. She was the eldest of all her sisters. She should have been the wisest. The most impervious to a fall.
“Come,” he said, taking her hands in his.
