“I don’t want to be released.”
She longed to capitulate, to throw herself into his arms and say, “Yes, I’ll marry you,” but she couldn’t, and he was being obtuse about it. “You never would have proposed if you hadn’t witnessed Mr. Pilkington being horrid to me. I’d wonder our whole lives whether you regretted those hasty words, spoken without thinking, spoken in anger.”
Though, it had been stirring, she must admit. It had given her carnal cravings to see him staredown the vicar and offer to defend her honor with his fists.
“Sandrine, it doesn’t matter why the proposal was given. You’re marrying me. After last night, it’s the only option.”
“You’re not listening to me.” She balled her hands. “You can’t ruin someone if what they’re asking for isn’t ruination but salvation. Calling itruinis a way for society to shame women, make them feel like victims. I’m not a victim. I don’t feel as though I’ve fallen into a dark, redemptionless pit. I feel, for the very first time in my life, as though I’m standing on my own two feet and I can bravely face what the future brings.”
“You’re mine now, Sandrine.” He glowered at her and gripped her shoulders with his strong hands. He was going to rescue her whether she wanted it or not. And suddenly she was drowning, her head underwater, and only his arms surrounding her would allow her to breathe again.
“I can’t seem to push you away, Sandrine. Those blackmailers are still out there. The threat isn’t gone. And now we’re bound to each other. I will protect you.” His grip tightened until it was almost painful. “Do you hear me? You’re mine. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
He claimed her lips fiercely. The danger, the pleasure of coming together, lips exploring hungrily, hands tangling in hair, his fist in her hair, pulling her head back. His lips on her throat. She ached for him. Yearned for him.
His palm closed around her breast, a possessive claiming that thrilled her. She wanted him so badly. Last night hadn’t been nearly enough.
She wanted him to take her here in this prim and proper parlor with pink roses papering the walls and dainty furnishings.
“I can’t get enough of you. Sandrine—” her name on a deep, low moan “—I can’t keep my hands off you.”
“Then, don’t.”
He gripped her hips with both hands and pulled her against him, showing her how stiff he was, how much he wanted her. She was lost to anything but the desire flowing through her veins. She wanted to open for him. Take him inside her.
He pushed her bodice down roughly and dipped his head to suckle her nipple.
“Dane,” she moaned, her head falling back. He captured the back of her head with his palm, and his hand moved lower, circling the back of her neck, holding her motionless for the sensual exploration of his lips on her breasts and throat.
“Sandrine Oliver!” They both turned their heads to see her mother standing there, jaw slack, eyes bulging. “You... you wicked beast! Mauling my daughter in broad daylight. Get away from her!”
Dane set her down. They were both breathing heavily. Sandrine adjusted the bodice of her gown and attempted to smooth her hair back into place.
“I can kiss my fiancée, Mrs. Oliver,” Dane said coldly. He took her hand, and they stood shoulder to shoulder, facing her mother.
The horrified expression on her mother’s face triggered a rising tide of guilt and shame that threatened to engulf Sandrine’s mind and send her begging for forgiveness. But she fought it. She wasn’t the same timid girl who’d left Squalton.
She willed her voice to be steady and calm. “You may as well know, Mama, that this isn’t the first time Lord Dane and I have kissed.”
“My God, do you hear yourself? Is this my devout and obedient daughter?” her mother sputtered. “You’ve been led astray by this devil. He’ll never marry you, Sandrine. He’s lying. That’s what rakes do. They lie and then they leave you. They leave you alone and heartbroken.”
“I absolutely will marry her,” Dane said.
“Dane,” she whispered. “I think I need to speak with my mother alone.” It was time for an honest conversation. Time to stop hiding who she really was and claim her own space.
He searched her face, his eyes clouded with concern. “Are you sure?”
“I must do this. It’s the only way for me to make my own way in the world.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “I meant what I said about protecting you. I’m sending a carriage for you in one hour. Pack your things. You’re moving into Rydell House.”
“Don’t bother with your corrupt commands, Lord Dane,” her mother said with an icy glare.“Sandrine will be going home with me to Squalton this very afternoon.”
“Mother.” Sandrine clenched her jaw. “We need to talk.”
Dane gave her hand a squeeze. “I understand that you need time alone with your mother. I’ll be waiting for you at Rydell House. Mrs. Oliver.” He nodded at her mother on his way out.
Her mother watched him leave, then turned to Sandrine with loathing in her eyes. “And so that man pretended to be a commoner to win your heart and now he’s ruined you. Is that why you begged to come to London? You were already under his spell. My poor, deluded girl.” She rushed over to Sandrine. “Tell me that you haven’t been compromised in truth. Tell me there’s no possibility of a babe out of wedlock.”
