“True.” He braced one hand against the wall beside her head, not quite caging her but making his presence undeniable. “Is that what you want? A spotless reputation? Acceptance into their tedious little world?”
“You’re part of that world.”
“I exist alongside it. There’s a difference.” His free hand rose, his fingers tracing the air near her jaw without quite touching. “I attend when it amuses me, take what I want, and leave the rest to rot. It’s surprisingly liberating.”
“Must be nice to have that luxury.”
“It’s not luxury. It’s power.” His fingers finally grazed her cheek, a feather-light touch. “And you, Miss Whitcombe, have more power than you realise.”
“Because of my father’s money?”
“No.” His thumb traced the line of her jaw, sending a shiver through her. “Because you refuse to break. Do you know how many women would have hidden away after what happened at the opera, waiting for the scandal to fade?”
“I don’t hide.”
“No,” he agreed, his voice soft and dangerous. “You don’t. You stand your ground and dare the world to do its worst. It’s...” He paused, seeming to search for the right word. “Intoxicating.”
The word hung between them, heavy with meaning. Marianne’s breath quickened, her chest rising and falling in a way that drew his gaze down before he forced it back to her face.
“You shouldn’t say such things,” she whispered.
“Why not? Because it’s improper? Because someone might hear?” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. “Or because you like it too much?”
“Your Grace—”
“Adrian.” The name came out rough, almost desperate. “When we’re alone, call me Adrian.”
“We’re not alone. Anyone could see—”
“Let them.” His hand slid from her jaw to her throat, his fingers resting lightly against her pulse. “Let them see that you’re mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
“Aren’t you?” His thumb pressed softly over her racing pulse. “Your body says otherwise.”
“My body—” She broke off, flushing hotly.
“Yes?” He was so close now she could feel his breath against her lips. “Tell me about your body, Marianne. Tell me how it feels when I touch you. Tell me what you think about in the dark, when you’re alone with nothing but memories of my breath on your skin.”
“Stop.” The word came out breathless, unconvincing.
“Make me.” His lips brushed her ear, sending sparks through her entire body. “Push me away. Slap me. Scream for help. Do something other than stand there trembling, pressing closer when you should be running away.”
He was right. She was pressing closer, her body betraying her even as her mind screamed warnings. Her hands had somehow found his chest, though she couldn’t remember reaching for him.
“This is madness,” she breathed.
“The best things usually are.” His hand slid from her throat to her waist, pulling her against him. “Tell me to stop, Marianne. One word, and I’ll walk away. I’ll leave you to your spotless reputation and your empty victories.”
She should say it. Should push him away, return to the salon—to safety, to sense.
Instead, she looked up at him, meeting those dark eyes that promised such beautiful destruction. “And if I don’t?”
His grip tightened, his control visibly fraying. “Then we’re already beyond saving.”
For a moment, they stood frozen, balanced on a knife’s edge between propriety and ruin. Then voices approached—loud, drunken male voices that shattered the moment like glass.
Adrian stepped back at once, though his eyes remained fixed on hers, dark with promise and frustration. By the time Lord Harrison and his cronies rounded the corner, they were standing at a perfectly respectable distance, discussing the weather with faultless politeness.
