Nicholas had been right about her.
She wasn’t the sort to run to her father when something unsettled her.She never had been.She did not flinch, or swoon, or call for assistance.She did not retreat behind her mother’s skirts or seek protection like a frightened hare.
She handled things herself.She made her own decisions.She fought her own battles.
Nicholas knew that.
He had named it—namedher—in a way that made her ribcage feel too small.
And that, she realized grimly, was exactly what he was counting on.
Her mouth twisted, though her pulse thudded traitorously on.
He thought she’d melt.Thought her curiosity, her breath hitching, her utterly treacherous reaction would mean something as foolish as surrender.
He thought he could seduce her.
Her.Beatrix Winslow.The one debutante in London who prided herself on seeing through men like him.
She squeezed her hands into fists.Her fingers ached under the pressure of her grip.
Well.Nicholas had better think again.
Because, yes, he had rattled her.Yes, her body had reacted to his words.Yes, his nearness had made her dizzy, and his certainty had shaken something at her core she didn’t want to name.
But that did not mean he had won.
She dragged her gaze away from the window, forcing her breath into something resembling normalcy.
Across the coach, her father turned a page, oblivious.Her mother hummed on, equally oblivious.
They had not noticed a thing.Not her trembling hands.Not her flushed cheeks.Not the storm still roaring in her chest.
Perhaps that was the most peculiar part of all.Nicholas Archer, with his wicked mouth and knowing eyes, had seen more of her in ten minutes of moonlight than her parents had noticed in her entire life.
Bea closed her eyes for one steadying, infuriated moment.
It didn’t matter.She would not be seduced.She would not be undone.She would be ready next time.
Nicholas thought he understood her?Thought he could seduce her?Well, let him try again.She would make certain he regretted it.
