Page 63 of A Deal for the Duke’s Virgin

“Indeed.”

“Well, are we going to talk about the translations, then? The other excerpts were from German poetry, I believe, and a little more complex than a novel. You haven’t even read them.”

Christian stepped half a pace too close to her, eyes blazing. “My dear, you cannot possibly think that we are here to discuss that.”

She blinked. “Well, what else are we here for if not the translations? I don’t understand.”

He leaned closer. She could smell him, a sharp scent amongst all the mellow, earthy greenery. Strange that she could identify his scent most of all. She really ought to ask him what cologne he used. Perhaps that was what she liked.

“You are behaving very strangely,” she remarked, lifting her chin. “Tell me, then. What do you want to discuss?”

He took another step towards her, making her step back.

“You danced with another man,” he breathed.

Thalia blinked, frowning. “Well, yes, but I had no choice.”

“Ah, there is always a choice, my dear.”

She folded her arms. “Is that so? Well, perhaps you’d be so kind as to point out what mine could have been. I cannot offend Mr. Pembroke in his own house. You did not ask me, despite my brother practically… practically offering me up to you on a plate!”

He gave a tight smile, as if the thought amused him greatly.

“It’s dreadfully impolite,” he purred, moving forward once more.

Thalia inched back, but this time the back of her knees hit the settee, and she plopped down with an undignified oof. Thank heavens for the cushion, or the breath would have been knocked out of her.

Christian leaned in, bringing himself almost nose to nose with her, and planted his hands on either side of her hips.

Her heart stuttered. She was fairly sure that she could not draw in a breath if she tried. Logically, she knew that air must be entering and exiting her lungs, but for the life of her, she could not feel it.

“I expect more from you, my dear,” he murmured. “You are my betrothed after all.”

“Actually,” she responded, lifting her chin, “until you speak officially to my brother, I am not.”

“I was not aware you needed his permission.”

“I do not. Not technically, but in the eyes of the ton, I ought to get it. You needn’t worry, he’ll grant you permission. He’d love it if I became a duchess.”

He’d love to keep my money for himself.

Christian eyed her for a long moment. Try as she might, she could not read the expression on his face. There was something intent there, something hungry. Whatever it was, it thrilled her, sparking a sharp bubble of desire in her gut.

She was fairly sure she ought not to be feeling such a thing. And yet knowing that something was improper did not make it go away, not in the slightest. She was learning that fast.

“We are not going to be really betrothed, anyway,” she heard herself say, voice catching.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, Thalia. Pull yourself together!

Christian reached forward, fingertips grazing her chin. She pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to lean into his touch.

“False betrothal or not,” he murmured thoughtfully, “you are mine for a month. That was what we agreed on. I don’t care to watch you dancing with other men, even ones as unpleasant as Mr. Pembroke.”

“Yours?” Thalia echoed with a squeak. “I am not yours, Your Grace.”

He chuckled, low and soft. “Are you not? Oh, my dear, you are mistaken. You are mine.”

“Saying it won’t make it so.”