She raised her eyebrows then blinked, and Charles caught a sheen of moisture in her eyes.
“I see,” she said. “You consider me not only beneath your notice, but also unworthy of a response.”
He gestured toward her.
Of course not.
“So, you dismiss me, is that it?” she said, her voice hardening as she glared at his hands. Then she gave a cold smile. “A great shame, given that we’ve been indulging insuchan interesting conversation.” She gestured about the terrace. “Consider yourself fortunate that I deign to converse with you, given the greater intellect of our companions.”
He glanced about the terrace then raised his eyebrows.
“The plants, sir,” she said, an edge to her voice. “I fancy I could elicit a more quick-witted and interesting response from a shrub, doyou not think?” She placed her hands on her hips, nodding in an exaggerated manner. “Oh yes, Miss Whitcombe,” she said, deepening her voice. “I’m a simpleton, come to speak to the plants because they’re my intellectual equal.”
She raised her voice to its usual feminine pitch. “Oh,thankyou, kind sir, I’msoglad we’re of one mind.” Then she lowered the pitch and gestured to the terrace doors. “Quite so, Miss Whitcombe. Not even the numbskulls inside with their heads filled with wool such as that coxcomb Sir Heath Moss, who’ll rut any creature with a pulse—and most likely many without—are able to match my lack of mental acuity.”
Her voice wavered, then she blinked, and a fat droplet splashed onto her cheek, glistening in the moonlight.
“But a lack of intellect is a sin that can be forgiven, for it is indeed no sin,” she said. “You are to be envied, sir. Your defining characteristic is lauded in Society, whereas mine…” She hesitated, her breath catching, and her lips trembled. “I-I’m committing the gravest of all sins, merely by existing. I—”
She broke off and a sob escaped her lips.
Devil’s breeches, that was all he needed.
He approached her, hands outstretched, willing his conscience to believe that the action was purely to stop her wailing, ignoring the little voice that whispered in his mind of the need to ease her pain.
“No!”
She stepped back, then let out a scream as she lost her balance and tripped. She lurched sideways, and Charles caught sight of the shards of glass, their sharp edges gleaming malevolently in the moonlight like a thousand sinister smiles.
He lunged forward and caught her in his arms. She screamed again and struggled, but he tightened his grip to prevent her from falling. After a moment, her struggles ceased and she surrendered, with the prey’s instinct that she was in the clutches of a stronger beast. Herbody heaved as her breath came out in sharp gasps, and he held her close.
Beneath that plain little gown lay a body with deliciously soft curves and perfect, round breasts that were pressed against his chest. He caught his breath as his breeches tightened at the feel of two little peaks poking at his shirt. Then he inhaled, relishing the soft scent, the faint undertones of rose, that stiffened his cock.
What the devil was she doing to him, this unremarkable little thing? Eyes squeezed shut like she were readying herself to have her throat torn out by the wolf, she stilled in his grasp as if welcoming her fate. She opened her eyes, and for a moment they stared at each other, two souls meeting across a chasm.
Then she spoke and broke the spell.
“Let me go.”
Another tear spilled onto her cheek as she whispered a plea. The despair in her tone threatened to breach the armor he’d fashioned around his heart.
“Please…”
Slowly he set her upright, but rather than release her, he paused. She made no attempt to move. Instead, she curled her fingers around his arms as she glanced toward the ground and the smashed glass. Understanding glimmered in her eyes and she parted her lips.
Then the doors crashed open, and a deep male voice bellowed with fury, “Youblackguard!”
The woman in Charles’s arms stiffened, and he released her and stepped back. But it was too late. The newcomer strode onto the terrace, his eyes blazing with fury.
Shit.It was Whitcombe.
The woman turned to Whitcombe and let out a cry. “Montague!” she said. “It’s not—”
“Be quiet,” he said. “You’ve lost the right to speak. As foryou…” He strode toward Charles and jabbed a finger at his chest. “You will marry her, or so help me God, I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
Charles shook his head, then Whitcombe twisted his face into a cold, cruel smile as he delivered the one threat capable of destroying Charles—the threat to the one thing in the world that he cared for.
“Or,” Whitcombe said, “I’ll shoot that horse of yours and feed him to my dogs.”
