He clenched his jaw. Anger flickered across his features, or regret perhaps, but then again, his expression changed. His eyes turned calculating, his posture shifting into something more... predatory.
He tilted his head, scrutinising her. ‘I cannot deny that I have thought of it many times,’ he admitted, his voice low. He reached out, twisting a loose curl around his finger, sending a shiver through her at his touch. ‘It is true—I am attracted to you,’ he said, utterly unapologetic. ‘But I cannot offer you marriage. Society dictates I must marry within the peerage.’
Grace stiffened.
‘If you became my mistress...’ He paused, his gaze sweeping over her. ‘Perhaps we could have the best of both worlds. I would keep you and your family comfortable, protected, in the lap of luxury. In return...’ His lips curled slightly. His finger traced down her arm, burning her skin. ‘I would have you.’
She gasped, stepping back in disbelief.
His eyes gleamed with something unreadable as he stepped forward and caught her in an embrace. His breath was warm against her skin as he leaned in, slowly closing the distance between them.
Her heart pounded. Everything about him overwhelmed her—the scent of spice and cedar, the heat of his body, thedevastating intensity of his gaze. She wanted to give in, to let him kiss her, to lose herself in the moment.
But the offer—his offer—was an insult.
How could she live with herself, knowing she had traded dignity for desire? That she had sold her soul for fleeting pleasure?
He would tire of her, eventually. Mistresses never lasted. And then, what would she have left? Censor and ridicule.
And what if I became pregnant?
She thought of Heather. How could she face her sister, knowing she had thrown away her reputation? How could Heather ever find a respectable match if Grace... became this?
It took every ounce of strength. She shoved him—hard.
And again.
‘How dare you!’ she spat, each push more forceful than the last.
‘How could you say this to me? How could you even think it?!’
She was furious. At him for his insult. At herself for almost giving in. At this cruel world that demanded she be grateful for such an indecent proposal.
‘I will not be your plaything!’
She pushed him a third time, but he caught her wrists, holding her fast. Her struggle was in vain. His grip was firm, unyielding.
‘Let go of me!’ she cried, her vision blurring with tears.
His jaw tightened. He held on.
Then, something in his expression shifted.
A flicker of... regret?
Of guilt?
Slowly, his hands loosened.
And then, just like that, he released her.
Stepping back, his face became unreadable—cold, detached.
‘I am sorry for any pain caused,’ he said, his voice utterly void of emotion.
‘I hope you can forgive me.’
The words sounded rehearsed. Hollow.
