Bundle of contradictions, indeed.
“Would you do more?”
“More?” he rumbled, the syllable naught more than a scrape againsthis throat.
With measured calculation, she placed one leg, then the other, over his muscled thighs. Of a sudden, the intimate air between their mouths was the only air capable of giving her life. “More,” she whispered, the word brushing across his lips.
They both knew what more. It was there in the word left unspoken.
Consummation.
“After I agreed to be your Cyrano and write a poem for Miss Dalhousie,” she continued, “you asked if there was anything you could do for me.”
“You were to tell me later.”
She’d gone far.
Too far.
Too far to turn back now.
“I’ve thought of the something later.”
“Miss Windermere?—”
“Juliet,” she said. “I want you to call me Juliet.”
“Juliet—”
“And I want you to make love to me.”
“No,” he said simply, certainly.
She was only now seeing how his uncomplicated way of viewing the world could present a problem.
“You’re a virgin,” he continued. “You will marry someday.”
She pulled back, but didn’t move off him. And he made no move to make her. In fact, his hands were on her waist, steadying her so she wouldn’t fall.
He would never let her fall.
He’d already proven it once.
But she had him here, finally. “I shall not marry.”
“You certainly shall.”
Her reasons had long been clear in her mind. “I’m an heiress who doesn’t need a husband. I canmake my own rules.”
He snorted, dismissive. “You Windermeres.” He shook his head. “You all think that.”
“But we can,” she said, undeterred. “And we do.”
“And yet here you sit, straddling”—a crack in his voice released on the word—“me without having followed through on your own logic.”
“Pardon?” she asked, indignation building. She very well might’ve shot to her feet if his hands hadn’t been holding her firmly in place.
“It’s simple,” he continued, evenly. “If anyone were to find out about us as we are now, you would have to marry.” A ragged heartbeat of time ticked past. “Me.” Another beat. “Would you risk your freedom for that future?”
