He crossed the room.
She retreated until her back hit the wall beside the mantel.
He stopped a breath away, not touching her.
“Why not?”he asked.
“Because I am trying to think,” she said, hating the tremor in her voice.“And I cannot think when you…when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”he murmured.
“Like you’ve already decided,” she said.“About me.About us.About…everything.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then returned to her eyes.
“No,” he said quietly, “I haven’t decided anything.”His voice roughened.“Except that I want you.”
Heat surged through her so abruptly she nearly swayed.
“This is exactly what I mean,” she said weakly.
“Do you want me?”he asked.
“Yes,” she said before she could stop herself.
His breath caught.“Say it again.”
“I—” She clamped her lips together.
His mouth curved, slow and wicked.“You want me,” he said softly, as if testing the words.“You, Lady Beatrix Winslow, terror of Tory salons, scourge of suitors, voluntary wallflower.You want me.”
“Don’t be smug,” she said, but it came out more like a plea than a rebuke.
He lifted one hand.She felt it coming before he did it.The anticipation crawled over her skin.
His knuckles brushed her cheek.
Barely.
She shivered.
“I won’t touch you,” he said, “unless you ask me to.”
Liar, she almost said, because he was already touching her, his fingers tracing a featherlight path along her jaw.But she knew what he meant.He would not kiss her, would not close that last charged space, unless she closed it first.
It should have been a mercy.
It was torture.
“Why do you make everything so difficult?”she whispered.
“I don’t,” he said.“You do.You came here determined to bare your soul, and now you’re hiding from it.”His thumb stroked the edge of her lower lip.“You’re shaking, and you’re furious, and you want me regardless.That is not my fault, sweetheart.”
The endearment undid something in her.
“I amtryingto tell you the truth,” she said.“I am trying.But all I can think about is?—”
She broke off.
