Page 89 of A Figure of Love

“Are you his lover?”

“What? No!”

Gareth found the look of revulsion on her face more convincing than her answer. But still, there was something he needed to know.

“Then why were you kissing him?”

She shook her head, her brow deep with wrinkles. “Kissing him? I never kissed him.”

“That night—the night he stayed at Rushton. I saw him leave your room. You called him back and then—”

She laughed, but when she saw his expression, she shook her head vigorously. “No, no, no. I’m not laughing at you; I’m laughing at what you think you saw. I’d called him back to warn him not to roam your house and steal anything because I would be watching. And that is when he kissed me.” She made a moue of distaste. “I had to wash my mouth out a dozen times after.”

Gareth fell back against the pillow, weak with relief.

She leaned over him, her hair a frilly curtain around them. “Is that why you were such a beast to me before you left?”

He felt his face heat.

She punched him in the arm. Hard.

He winced and rubbed his arm. “That hurt.”

“You deserve that. If you’d been there when I woke up I would have used a mallet on you.”

“I apologize.”

She grunted.

“But you were telling me about Bardot.”

“Do you recall what you said before?”

Gareth recalled everything he said, he always did.

“Yes,” he said, hesitant. Should he ask for clarification? Or should—

“Did you mean it?”

“About apologizing?”

She hit him again.

“Ow!” He grabbed her wrists and rolled on top of her. “Perhaps I need to bind you.”

The look of pure lust that flashed across her face at his words made his entire body hot. “I think perhaps I need to bind you,” she said, leaning toward him and kissing his throat.

“I will have to consider that.” He would have to give it a lot of consideration. “But quit trying to distract me. And hitting me. Tell me what thing you mean.”

Her gaze flickered. “You know—about love.”

“Oh. That.” After her reaction he had hoped she might have forgotten.

“I’m sorry I cried. It was just that I felt ashamed.”

Gareth’s head began to get that heavy, stuffed feeling it did when he found himself confounded by obscure social conventions. “Serena—”

“I love you, Gareth. I love you until I hurt with it.”