“I felt dizzied for a moment,” she admitted. “But it is gone now. You may release me.”
“I do not think I shall,” he denied grimly. “Come, let me guide you to the chair so you may sit and rest. You have been too long on your feet.”
She would have protested that she had not been, but he was already in action, guiding her across the carpets to the armchairs that looked as if they harkened back to the mid-century at least. Barlowe Park was a curious mixture of old and dilapidated, its former grandeur undeniable, yet tarnished beneath the lack of care it had clearly suffered for some time.
But she was not so much thinking of Barlowe Park and its complexities as she was the man at her side as he saw her settled comfortably in a chair. He possessed so many facets; at turns, he was the practiced rake, the wicked seducer, the easy charmer, but also the tender caregiver, the patient lover. If only she knew which of his many sides she ought to trust in most.
None, said her wounded pride and the fear that had never ceased to clutch her heart in its unrelenting grasp.
“Are you certain you will be well enough for the wedding to proceed tomorrow?” he asked, frowning down at her as he smoothed a wisp of hair from her cheek. “It seems I am making a habit of this,” he added, his gaze lingering on hers in a caress all its own.
“I was cursed with wavy hair, and it dislikes being subdued.” She barely kept herself from rubbing her cheek against his hand in the fashion of a cat.
Why did she crave this man’s touch so, even knowing what she did?
“I would not call it a curse,” he remarked, going to the chair flanking hers and seating himself. “Your hair is beautiful. I think about it often.”
More charm.
And she was susceptible. Terribly susceptible. As susceptible as she had been from the moment she had so recklessly and drunkenly thrown herself into his arms with her mad notion she could somehow cause a scandal and make Arthur jealous.
“Thank you. I have always despaired over the color,” she said, hoping to spoil the moment. “It is far too dark.”
“I find myself partial to it, neither brown nor black, but a rich mystery in between. Mahogany, I should say, for lack of a better descriptor, with that slight sheen of auburn in the sunlight.”
He had somehow made the hair she had forever found herself lamenting in the looking glass sound desirable. And there he went again, plying her with his charm and his practiced wooing.
I will not succumb.
I will not succumb.
But tomorrow, she would be his wife. How to resist him when he would have every right to inhabit her bedroom, her bed, when her body would be his?
“My hair is unremarkable. You are merely attempting to win me with flattery.” Her words emerged with a harshness she had not intended, but there was no help for it now.
“I am telling you the truth,cariad. I’ve no need to flatter you. I reckon we are well beyond that point now.”
Her heart sped up. Her cheeks were hot. She toyed with the pleats in the silk skirt of her dressing gown. Unlike her ordinary choices, it was calm and plain and unadorned.
“No artichokes?” he asked teasingly into the silence, as if he had read her thoughts.
“Strangely enough, I have not been feeling myself after having a bullet graze my arm the other day,” she quipped swiftly. “Losing blood and having one’s self stitched together does have a way of dampening one’s desire to choose her millinery with care.”
“Christ. Of course it would. Particularly sincemillineryrefers to a lady’s headwear rather than her gowns.” The teasing smile he sent her way shattered the moment.
She could not tamp down her laugh before it fled her lips, though she dutifully pressed a finger to them to contain further mirth. “I meant to saytoilette, you wretch.”
The dimple reappeared.
Her heart approved. And so did other parts. Desire was a welcome sensation, reminding her of how fortunate she was to be alive, even if the need had found its source in the man who had stolen her heart and then summarily broken it.
“I knew what you meant,” he said softly. “I could not resist teasing you, hoping it would lessen your dudgeon. Make no mistake, you are as glorious to behold in your anger as you are in pleasure, but I would far prefer to be the source of the latter in your life rather than the former.”
Pleasure.
Oh, he had given it to her.
Had introduced her to sensations she had never known existed.
