A small smile curved his lips—sensual lips, those. Too full for a man. She had never seen the like on a gentleman before. But then, perhaps she had never taken the time to observe another gentleman’s mouth either. Before New Wycombe, no man had provided sufficient distraction to intrigue her.
While Izzy had been falling in love with Mr. Penhurst, Elysande had always been far too interested in the time she had been permitted to spend within Father’s workshop. She had suffered any number of balls and other social events with a polite smile whilst privately thinking of which cement she might next use or which manner of wire would conduct electricity with the most efficiency.
But now, Wycombe’s smile—a wolfish smile, a predatory smile, a smile that said he was a captain at the helm of this particular ship—drew her in with a vehemence no other man’s before had. The bothersome curl fluttered from its place behind her ear and tickled her cheek.
He was upon her before her muddled mind could make sense of his having moved, long fingers reaching for the tendril of hair and tucking it into position once more. His fingertips grazed her skin as he did so, and the result was a pure, unexpected jolt of sensation blossoming from the point of contact and radiating outward.
“Your set, Lady Elysande,” he said quietly, “will never,everbe mine. I hail from a different world, and though I may have been forced to take on this bloody title and role and all the burdens which trail along as accompaniment, I am not an aristocrat. I am not the sort of soft-palmed gentleman who has led you on quadrilles and waltzes in ballrooms. I have looked into the eyes of murderers, and I have witnessed the aftermath of crimes that would leave your coddled lords huddled in a corner, crying into their monogrammed handkerchiefs.”
His bluntness took her by surprise, as did his fervor. But it was the picture he painted with his words, more than anything, which held her in thrall. This was not the polite—albeit inept at courting—man who had spoken with her in the gardens at Brinton Manor. Or perhaps it was, but she had mistaken him. She had believed him an easy dupe, a man in desperate need of her dowry to restore the ruined estate he had inherited.
But he was not weak at all, and she could see that now as he loomed over her, the smile banished from his countenance. Nor would he be cozened or coerced. He was much more than she had initially supposed. A fearsome opponent. Which should have cowed her, or at the very least impeded her from binding herself to him in a marriage agreement. However, the realization had the opposite effect.
“I understand you are not like my other suitors, Your Grace,” she managed.
She ran her tongue over her lips, wetting them, and then the breeze picked up once more, playing havoc with that lone, disastrous curl. This time, it landed on the seam of her mouth, sticking there.
He reached it first, cupping her face and swiping his thumb over her lips. “Damn it. Your bloody hair is flying everywhere.”
His words were almost an accusation, as if he suspected she had intentionally called upon the wind and required her lady’s maid to assemble her hair into a loose chignon merely to exasperate him. There should have been nothing about his words or his actions that sent heat rushing through her.
And yet, itdid.
She found herself leaning toward him. His thumb lingered longer than necessary, tracing over her lower lip once, then twice. A third time.
“Forgive my hair,” she said, which was foolish and nonsensical.
Her left hand, of its own volition, unhooked itself from her right and settled upon his upper arm. Beneath the layers of his coat and shirt, the strength and heat of him seemed to burn into her.
“I’ll not change my mind,” he told her.
To her shame, it took a moment for her whirling mind to comprehend what he referred to.
Oh, yes. My amendment.
“Nor will I,” she brazened, though in truth she was not nearly as confident as she pretended.
“You want to marry, and yet you have no wish for children.” His thumb was at the corner of her lips now, caressing.
She should pull away. Disengage. Remove herself from his intoxicating touch.
Elysande remained, telling herself that feigning imperviousness was every bit as strong as withdrawing. “As I said, it is not that I do not want children for the entirety of my life. Merely, it is that I do not want to be forced into bearing them now.”
“Forced.”
She sighed. “Is that not an accurate portrayal?”
His thumb swiped over her lower lip again, more leisurely this time. Almost taunting. “I would never force you to do anything you do not wish, my lady. I would not force any woman.”
He would not need to, she thought perversely. This man could persuade anyone to do whatever he wished. She had only to look to herself for evidence. She was already thinking that perhaps she ought to offer him a compromise.
I must not relent.
I must not relent.
I must not—
“Six months,” she blurted.
