Deep inside of him, in a place he had long thought dead and buried, desire stirred. A strange and misplaced desire to turn the stranger in his arms and look into her eyes. Touch her skin and see if it was as soft as the curves of her body were. The fact that she was a stranger and a thief be damned in all of it.
But he didn’t do either of those things. He wrapped a hand around her arm, holding her tight as he reached down with the other and grabbed a log. He threw it onto the dying fire, then caught a candle from the mantel and lowered it, lighting it from the growing flame.
Only then, when the light raised in the room, did he look at his intruder’s face. And that face did nothing to reduce the strange longing that hardened his cock and made his long-dead heart throb back to life.
She was exquisitely beautiful, with silky dark hair which had partly fallen from the bun at the nape of her neck in their struggle. Her eyes were bright and wild with fear. Green eyes, darkest green, the color of summer leaves.
Eyes that went even wider when the same light hithisface. He knew what she saw. The scar that slashed from his temple, down his cheek, across his lips and down to his chin. The scar that reflected perfectly the monster that he was inside. He fought the urge to turn away from her gaze, to back into the darkness again so she wouldn’t see him and the ugliness that went far beneath the surface.
She let out a gasp and twisted in his arms even further, then darted out one daintily slippered foot and crushed it down against his boot. Although it didn’t hurt, he was surprised by the action, and for a moment his grip slipped. She didn’t hesitate to shrug from his arms and dart back toward his door.
Marianne could hardly breathe as she ran. Just a few more steps and she’d be in the hallway. A few more after that and she’d be back in the parlor where there had been a window unlocked. Out that and she’d be free. Free of the dark and dangerous man who had—
She didn’t get to finish the thought. She didn’t even make it to the first door when he caught her again from behind and crushed her back against his broad, muscular chest once more. She felt his breath stir her hair, the steaminess of it against the shell of her ear as he whispered, “Stop running.”
His voice was deep and rich, and its hardness stopped her struggle immediately. They stood there like that for a moment, his arms still around her, his panting breath in her ear, her body pressed intimately against him. Then he reached forward and pushed the door to the office shut.
He turned her in his arms, not releasing her when he did so, and she shivered as she stared up at his scarred face once again. It was a handsome face despite the harsh, raised mark that marred it. He had a well-defined jaw, full lips and bright eyes that were as blue as a cloudless sky. Her lips parted as those eyes bore down into her, holding her as hostage as much as his arms did.
“Who are you?” he asked.
That rough voice swirled into her ears and she stared at him harder, struck dumb by the command he held with so few words. He held her gaze for a moment, his frown deepening.
“I may look like a beast, girl, but I have no intention of hurting you. But youwillanswer me. Who are you?”
“M-My name is…” She trailed off, knowing that the moment she gave her name she would be lost.
“By God, you will tell me,” he hissed, lowering his face closer to hers and filling every space until there was only him.
“Marianne,” she whispered. “My father was…he was the Earl of Martingale.”
He didn’t react for a moment. Then he tilted his head like he was trying to read her. “If you run again, I will tie you to a chair, do you understand?”
“You know who I am,” Marianne said as the reality of the situation settled heavy in her chest. “There is no point in running now. Everything is over.”
His fingers loosened their grip on her and he stepped back, folding his arms across his chest. “You are the daughter of a nobleman.”
She wrinkled her brow. At present she didn’t know many who would call her fathernoble. “He was titled, yes,” she admitted.
“Was?”
“He is dead, Your Grace. A week ago,” she said, shocked that he was pretending not to know who the Earl of Martingale was. Such scandal like that which surrounded her father could not be avoided.
“My condolences for your loss,” he said, inclining his head ever so slightly. “But why would a lady such as you break into my house and try to steal from me?”
Now she stared openly at him, her mouth slightly open. “You pretend not to know—is that by design? Are you sporting with me, sir? If you are, it is infinitely cruel.”
He lifted both eyebrows. “Iam not the one who broke into your home, my lady. I think you ought to be careful in your outrage. I am not sporting with you at any rate, I only think I have a right to know the situation of my thief.”
She let out a sigh. “Do youreallynot know who my father was? I thought everyone in the world, or at least the world of theton, knew about it all. About the scandal that surrounds him…me…us.”
“Look at me, Lady Marianne,” he said softly. “Do I look like I roam free in Society, giving a damn about some foolish little scandal?”
She caught her breath. Hetrulydidn’t know what was happening. Hetrulydidn’t know anything about her. He was the first person since her father’s death who was so far removed from the whispers. The first person who did not automatically judge her for what the earl had done.
Of course, the duke judged her now for what he believedshewas here to do, instead.
She stared up into his face, past the shocking scar, into those blue eyes, and for a wild moment she knew what she would do. She knew she would tell him everything. Because she needed so desperately to spill herself out to someone who had no preconceived notions. Someone who wouldn’t whisper anything she said down the lane until her own words came back to haunt her.
