His query stung. “Once, you claimed to.”
It would seem her course of self-destruction was determined and complete.
“Out of pity.” His lip curled.
Three words—who would have expected they could slice as dangerously and viciously as any blade?
Not Julianna. But they did.Dear God, how they did. But she would not shed a single tear before him. Would be damned before she allowed him to see how easily he could hurt her.
She forced a polite smile to her lips. “Is there anything else you wished to say to me this evening, my lord? It has been an eventful day, and I am weary.”
“Eager for the consummation, darling?” he asked.
The consummation.Such a cold, impersonal manner of describing what would happen. She wanted to hate it. Wanted to hate him. And still, as he stood before her, mocking and cutting and cruel, she could not.
An ache sprang to life, one she very much wished she could repress. “Surely you do not intend to come to me this evening?”
“Why should I not?”
Her pulse pounded. “Because I am tired.”
“So you said.” He swung away from the doorjamb and crossed the threshold, moving past her in such proximity their arms brushed.
That brief, fleeting contact was enough to sear her. His bay scent was exquisite torture. So, too, his presence in her chamber. In her life.
She turned to follow him, wondering what he intended to do. Wondering, too, where he had been. Had he gone to visit a mistress? She told herself she did not care. That it did not matter. Worse, that he likely had.
“What are you doing, Shelbourne?” she asked.
He threw himself into one of the chairs by the fireplace. It was a feminine chair in a distinctly feminine room, and he ought to look ridiculous and out of place here. Instead, the contrast only seemed to heighten his masculinity. His necktie was perfectly knotted. His wavy hair was perfectly tousled.
“Sitting on this chair,” he proclaimed. “What the devil does it look like I am doing, Julianna?”
“Do not you have a chair upon which to sit in your own room?” The question was telling, she knew, but also necessary.
She wanted—nay,needed—him out of her presence.
The longer he lingered, the more dangerous this game he was playing with her became.
“I do,” he said, that wicked mouth of his quirking once more. “I also have a bed, a wardrobe, and all manner of things. Would you care to inspect them, or are you going to have a seat?”
She sighed, because he did not have the air of a man who was going anywhere any time soon, and seated herself in the chair flanking his. “There. Does this please you?”
“No. I would be more than happy to tell you what would, and in precise detail.”
What a devil he was.
“Thank you, but no.”
Tell your mistress instead.
But she did not say that. Could not bear to dredge up old, painful memories. Best to keep those where they belonged—buried in the past.
“Shame,” he quipped lightly, as if he had not a care.
Maybe he did not. He certainly did not care abouther.
“Are you going to tell me why you are sitting in this chair, or am I meant to guess as if we are playing a drawing room game?” she asked next.
