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“But you don’t hold me accountable.”

“You hold yourself accountable. That’s enough for me.”

“I know what you’ll say.” She dropped her gaze to the carpet. “Jack doesn’t do the same. He deserves what he gets. But I feel like a bloody traitor, enjoying your company, when you’re trying to hurt him.”

His bare feet entered her field of vision.

“I didn’t think I was lonely before,” she whispered. “But when I’m with you . . .” She gulped for air. “I feel as though there’s more of me.”

She slid her foot between his feet. His feet were much larger than hers, more finely shaped.

“You have nice toes,” she said.

“Nina.”

She didn’t look up. “Why did you stop kissing me? Miss Holroyd said you’ve kissed a lot of people.”

“I have.”

“So, it doesn’t affect you that much, one way or the other?”

“You affect me,” he growled. “And I want to do more than kiss you.”

She raised her head and almost quailed. His expression was fierce, wolfish with hunger.

She felt a flutter, deep and low, that made her clench her thighs.

She swallowed. “You want a tumble?”

A strangled sound emerged from his throat. Her crass language amused him. And aroused him. She could sense it. The atmosphere in the room thickened by the second.

“You stopped,” she continued, faltering, “because you could tell I . . .”

He looked perplexed. But wasn’t that it? He’d understood what her inexperienced kisses implied. He’d decided to protect her virtue.

“You could tell that I haven’t . . .” She was hot with embarrassment.

“You haven’t? No. Lord.” He stepped back. “I assumed the opposite.”

She must look like a beet. She felt her cheeks turn screaming red.

What she’d lacked in experience, she’d made up for in wantonness. Of course it wouldn’t have struck him as virginal, her straddling his hips in a park.

“I shouldn’t have assumed anything.” He was wincing. “Do you want a drink? I want a drink.” He strode from her and returned with two glasses.

She wet her mouth with the brandy gratefully.

“Nina,” he said, on a breath. “I can’t give you what you need.”

She lowered her glass and stared.

“Do you think I expect you to marry me?” She gulped the rest of the brandy and handed back the glass. “I’ve never had the slightest interest in marriage. I saw my mother. And I see my aunts. I’m not marrying anyone.”

Her eyes latched again to his throat, the pulse beating there like wings.

“But you should marry someone,” he said. “For love. A wholesome village lad, with a soul as pure as a dewdrop. Someone as truehearted as you are.”

“Truehearted?” Her chest cramped. “I’ve built my life on lies.”