He said nothing for a moment, none of his thoughts being of a speakable nature. Yes, he had scars. No, his uncle had never been, and would never be, his master. And if she wanted to examine his back then…
Well. Enough of that.
He straightened and leant his back against the fireplace, crossing his arms.
She turned away, unable to bear looking at him, perhaps. Her shoulders rose and fell on an agitated breath. When she spoke, her voice was tightly controlled. “I should see how my aunt is doing.”
“Not yet. We have plans to make.”
She shook her head, letting out a breath of annoyance. “You can give me my instructions in writing.”
“Ah, but what a waste of paper that would be. Come now, Mrs Ardingly, turn and look at me. You can’t mean to be so easily defeated. I’m still sure of victory.”
“I care so little for your wager, sir, that you would need a microscope to find it.”
He laughed at that, as fully and freely as he’d laughed at anything in some time.
And still she stood with her back to him, her shoulders high, her spine rigid.
“I beg you, Mrs Ardingly”—the laugh was still in his voice—“insult me to my face. I’d hate to miss a drop.”
Her answer was to leave the room without looking back, stomping away with that mannish stride of hers. But his stride was longer; he reached the door at the same time she did and stopped her hand upon the knob, his fingers around her wrist.
“Talk about badton.” His voice was a murmur. He had no need to talk loudly; her ear was close to his mouth, her shoulder against his chest. “You said you were obliged to me, madam. The least you could do is hear me talk.”
“Very well.” She turned abruptly, her wrist still in his hand, pivoting on her heel so they were chest to chest. Her blue eyes fixed on his, bold and angry, her chin high. “Talk.”
Inevitably, his gaze fell to her mouth. A few inches of movement would close the space between them. He could try it. She would strike him.
It was too soon.
So he did not move at all, except his thumb, which traced the furious pulse in her wrist.
Her chest rose sharply at the touch, her bosom skimming his waistcoat. It was dizzying, how badly he wanted her. He couldn’t think like this, all heat and clamour and desperate hunger.
If he kissed her…
Yes, she would strike him. He could almost feel the sting of her palm on his jaw. She hated him too much to submit.
Think, Sebastian, goddammit, you’re playing a longer game than this.
With another brief stroke of her wrist, he stepped back, letting go.
“This wager benefits us both, remember?” He turned and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back. The evidence of his desire was very…evident. It would be her turn to talk to his back for a while. “I still mean to get you your ten men—the nucleus for your committee board—and to make this ball of yours a success. You saved one boy last night. Don’t throw away your chance to help thousands more.”
“We could manage without you.”
But there was no heat to her words, no strength. It was rote defiance, just a mere footnote to let him know she was still angry.
“Perhaps. Given years. And in the meantime, all those boys… You gave delay as a reason for not requesting my assistance last night. You understand the benefit of getting your committee into action within mere months.”
“Fine.” That was a bookmark shoved between the pages, theBook of Defianceset down with an irritated smack. “What is your plan?”
“You will come to the Allingham’s ball tomorrow, and we will dance together.”
She laughed. “Oh, what a plan! One dance with you will set all to rights, I’m sure.”
He turned, mouth crooked in a smile. “It will be a start.” He was remembering the betting book at White’s. Leighton’s wager that Mrs Ardingly would wed before the year was out had already made her a subject of interest. His attention would increase that tenfold. And where interest was ignited, invitations would follow. The picnic had proved Mrs Ardingly was perfectly capable of creating a good impression when given the chance to do so—and when free of her aunt.
