For a moment, she found herself mesmerized by his neck, his Adam’s apple, the shadow of whiskers along his angular jaw. It appeared as if he had yet to shave this morning. She wondered how those bristles would feel against her palms. Coarse? Against her lips. Rough? Against her cheek. Sinful?
She blinked, tamping down these despicable urges. Base lust. She should have believed herself long since inured to such a lowly compulsion. The last time she had desired a man, she had been young and foolish, and the man in question had been…
Him.
“Of course not,” she snapped, taking care to keep her bearing stiff, her voice frigid. To allow no hint of her inner unruliness to show. “I would never be so low.”
“No?” He was moving toward her.
Sauntering.
Closing the distance.
She would not retreat.
“No,” she repeated, fingers finding her skirts once more, twisting the silk. Later, she would fret over the wrinkles if she must. For now, she needed a place for her hands. To keep them from reaching out to him.
He stopped, leaving scarcely any space between his body and hers. So close, the heat wafting from him cloaked her.
His dark gaze searched hers, his countenance unreadable. “Do you mean to pay me an insult?”
“No more than the one you have paid me, in suggesting I become your kept woman.”
“Ah, but if you will recall, I suggested no such thing.”
Had he not? She searched her mind.
Curse him.He had not.
She clenched her skirts so hard, her fingers ached. “Why mention such an inexcusable subject?”
“You were the one who broached the topic first, as I recall,” he pointed out calmly.
Correctly.
Why was she still standing before him, arguing unimportant details?
“I was seeking to explain to you why I cannot remain here with my daughter,” she bit out. “Your offer is nothing short of an insult. You must know that staying here is impossible.”
He cocked his head, studying her with that same dark regard that she felt in her core. “You could stay with me if you were my wife.”
Had she misheard him?
Was he mad?
“We are not married, Your Grace,” she managed to sputter.
“We could be, however. Quite easily, in fact. Then you could remain here with your daughter and be safe.” He said the words as if they made complete sense.
As if they were not utter madness.
“You must realize I would never marry you, Northwich,” she said.
“You will neither be my mistress nor marry me.” He pressed a hand over his heart. “Oh, you wound me. Am I so unacceptable, then?”
He was not unacceptable, not as he stood before her now. Indeed, there was precious little she could reconcile with the reckless, charming young man who had stolen her heart and then crushed it so ruthlessly with his deceptions. But that did not mean she trusted him. And it most certainly did not mean she would marry him or share his bed.
“Both roles require the trust of the lady involved,” she pointed out. “You do not have mine.”
