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She craned her neck to look at him and swallowed. He was so very tall. Her head barely reached his shoulders.

He held her tightly in his arms, his eyes roaming her face as he lowered his head. “I’d rather forfeit the marquessate than spend any time in bed with you,” he growled, his face only inches away from hers.

“And I’d rather give birth to the spawn of the devil than to your heir. Please unhand me. I am about to cast up my accounts from the feel of your touch on my person.”

“A wanton like yourself?” he scoffed. “You are begging for my touch.”

“As if!” she spat. “I’d rather touch a—”

She was rudely interrupted as Vane dipped his head and captured her mouth in a hard kiss.

His lips were unyielding and his kiss urgent, demanding. Isabel opened her lips and welcomed his heated embrace.

Her body went limp as he continued devouring her mouth, his hands roaming her body. It was so pleasant to be held so tightly, kissed so ardently after years of being so alone.

Lonely.

She felt his heat all along her length, and her body instantly arched against his.

Why was he kissing her? Weren’t we just arguing? Is this kiss meant as a punishment?

Isabel put her arms between their bodies and thumped at his chest. She twisted her head away, and the marquess kissed her ear, her neck.

Isabel whimpered, confused and aroused. She wasn’t supposed to feel that way. She was repulsed by the marquess, wasn’t she?

He still held her tightly, and she could feel the evidence of his desire pressed against her thigh. The realization made her heat from the inside while her body itched, and she wished to crawl out of her skin.

All too soon, Vane let go of her and stepped away. Isabel reeled and caught herself against the tree.

“See?” the marquess croaked. “Wanton.”

Isabel felt her neck and cheeks heat in anger and embarrassment. He’d just used her body’s unconscious responses against her. He’d made her enjoy his kisses, only to prove a point! And the most dreadful part of it was that she did indeed enjoy his kisses.

She was so upset and confused she wanted to cry. More than that, she wanted to give him a piece of her mind. But her mind proved blank, so she picked up her skirts and turned on her heel.

“We marry on Sunday,” he said to her back. “I’ll get us a special license by then.”

Isabel did not answer. She walked away, not looking back, and resolved to forget the entire encounter.

Chapter 4

Rhys walked back home, lost in deep thought. What devil had prompted him to kiss Miss Lewis? In daylight, in the middle of the park, no less.

He used to be rational and logical. He had rarely let his emotions get the best of him, yet this woman brought out the worst in him.

When he was close to her, he returned to that young boy, hurt by the girl he thought he loved. But that was so long ago. Harboring any ill will toward her was childish and irrational.

She might be a fallen woman—a wanton—but he did not need to stoop to her level.

He was a marquess. He had a daughter to think of. He had too much to lose, and he shouldn’t let that woman get to him.

He entered the house to see the servants scurrying to clean up the hall.

“Where’s Millie?” Rhys addressed his butler.

“She went to the blue salon with Button,” the old man answered.

Rhys heaved a sigh. The blue salon was probably already ruined.