She might have said that he had done so, but he clearly possessed no recollection of ever having crossed her path before last night.
Her stomach curdled, but she forced her chin up, holding his brilliant gaze. “I know I’m no beauty, my lord. I’m a penniless orphan firmly on the shelf, forced to earn her bread. Pray, do not condescend to me. You’ve done damage enough.”
“I have done,” he agreed, startling her as he reached out, taking her valise in hand and tugging gently. “Set this down, if you please.”
“I’ll not,” she denied, clinging to it with redoubled effort. “As I said, I’ll not accept your pity.”
And yet, he refused to let go, the action bringing them closer together than before. Close enough that his warm breath fanned over her lips. He was temptation in a perfectly pristine cravat and spotless Hessians. She wanted to hate him for what he had done, for his carelessness, for his rakish ways, for everything. Yet, a part of her could not.
“It isn’t pity which prompts me, Miss Brooke,” he said, his voice low and deep, his stare burning into hers, “but guilt. The need to make amends for what I have done.”
He was serious, but the realization brought her little joy, even if an old, long-banished part of Elizabeth was sorely tempted to acquiesce. To accept the astonishing turn of Fortune’s fickle wheel that would make her the wife of a man she had once longed for desperately.
“You needn’t, my lord,” she said primly instead.
“I do need.” He remained standing in unbearable proximity, his gloved thumb moving over her fingers in a caress that made her heart beat faster.
But no, she didn’t dare believe that he would remain steadfast in such a proposal. His reputation was well-known. He was a debauched seducer, a reckless rogue. He was more handsome than any gentleman had a right to be.
Was he in his cups? The sudden suspicion hit her, and she leaned a bit nearer, inhaling deeply to see if she caught the scent of spirits.
“Are you foxed, my lord?” she asked unkindly.
“I am astonishingly sober.”
His thumb moved again, stroking over her knuckles.
“Are you mad?”
It was the only explanation for this morning’s bewildering turn of events.
He chuckled softly, but there was precious little mirth in the sound. “Perhaps. But then, aren’t we all, just a bit?”
She ran her tongue over her lips, which had gone dry in the course of their unexpected exchange. And his gaze dipped to her mouth, his expression changing, his own lips parting. And she found herself every bit as drawn to that sensual, sinner’s mouth as she’d ever been.
Good, sweet heavens above.
“I think thatImust be mad,” she blurted, sounding irritatingly breathless.
Mad because she was considering his offer. Mad because his nearness and his wandering thumb were making her entertain thoughts she hadn’t in years. Stupid, imprudent thoughts. Thoughts she had believed herself far too old and wise and world-weary to ever have again.
A small smile turned the corners of his lips up. “Then we shall suit quite nicely.”
“I don’t think we will suit at all.”
“Shall we see?”
Another wicked stroke of his thumb, lingering on her forefinger. There was something ridiculously intimate about the connection, something inherently carnal, and yet it was the simplest of touches.
“We needn’t test the notion,” she argued, trying to cling to her sense of reason. “You are a lord. I am a governess. We reside in different spheres.”
“Let go of the valise,” he urged softly, his thumb teasing again.
Elizabeth didn’t know why, but she surrendered. She gave in, relinquishing it just as she had the night before when he had spirited her away for the second time, bringing her to the duke and duchess. Solemnly, he deposited the case on the floor at his side.
When he straightened, he bore a look of singular purpose. No man had ever looked at her the way Viscount Torrington was gazing at her now. Heat prickled the back of her neck.
And then, he asked the second-most-longed-for question her former self had dreamed he would one day ask.
