Page 80 of A Wicked Game

She sent him a sad, almost pitying sigh. “You can’t prove something that doesn’t exist. Your ‘love’ for me is as fictional as my Paradise Court.”

His chest felt like the time he broke three ribs falling from his horse, but it was clear that there would be no persuading Harriet now.

He was no stranger to military tactics: sometimes the best course of action was to withdraw, regroup, and live to fight another day. That’s how he’d captured theBrilliant, after all. He’d let the French think he was beaten, dispirited, outgunned—and then he’d launched an unexpected counterattack.

“Fine,” he said diffidently.

He bent and retrieved his shirt from the floor and tugged it over his head, taking heart from the slight pout of disappointment on Harriet’s face as his chest disappeared from view.

He bit back a smile, suddenly glad she hadn’t had time to see him naked. She hadn’t explored his body the way he’d explored hers. His physique was still a mystery to her—and uncharted territory to Harriet was a terrible temptation. She’d be plagued by the unknown, desperate to know what was lacking from her store of worldly knowledge. That could definitely work to his advantage.

He sent her a challenging stare. “One week.”

Her brows drew together. “What?”

“Give me one week to prove that I love you.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know what on earth you think you can do, but fine. Whatever you want. One week.”

His sprits soared, but he nodded as solemnly as if they’d sealed the bargain in blood, even as a small, amused corner of his brain appreciated how inevitable it was that he and Harriet were bargainingyet again.

The stakes, however, had never been higher.

He bent and retrieved his boots and stockings from the floor and resisted the urge to round the bed and kiss her. “In that case, I’ll bid you goodbye. You don’t need to show me out. I’ll make my own way to the stables.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but he held up his hand to forestall her. “I’ll make sure nobody sees me leave. One week, Harriet.”

Harriet sank gratefully onto the bed as Morgan strode out of the room. Her hands were shaking, her chest tight. She let out an incredulous huff of air, as if she’d been winded.

Dear God!

She’d never thought she’d hear Morgan actually sayI love you.Marry mewas more than she’d ever dared to dream. She’d have wagered the entire contents of the shop that he’d never say those particular words to her.

If only he really meant them.

She didn’t doubt that he desired her. Even a near virgin like herself could discern that, but lust was temporary.

Three years ago the papers had been full of the salacious affair between Lady Caroline Lamb and Lord Byron, and the disastrous outcome to that had seemed to Harriet both tragic and completely predictable. She’d been at the ball in honor of the Duke of Wellington when Byron, tired of his lover, had publicly spurned her. LadyCaroline had smashed a wineglass and threatened to cut her own wrists, and although the gesture had been merely for dramatic effect, it had been the start of Lady Caroline’s eventual blackballing from society. Harriet had vowed then and thereneverto make such a fool of herself over a man.

A marriage needed more than lust to make it survive. Her parents had shown her that. And while she and Morgan undoubtedly shared the same sense of humor and an irresistible urge to goad each other, the gulf between what they wanted from life was unbridgeable.

She could never be content to stay at home while her husband had all the adventures. And while the thought of bearing Morgan’s children caused an ache of pure longing in her chest, she wouldn’t want any offspring of hers to grow up without a father for long periods of time.

Tears threatened, but she fought them back.

A month ago, if Morgan had asked her to marry him, she would have assumed it was some kind of evil Davies trick to humiliate her. That she’d say yes—revealing her love for him—only to have him laugh and expose it as a cruel joke.

She didn’t think that now. Morgan had somehow convinced himself he was in love with her, but she didn’t dare believe his proposal was anything other than a last-ditch attempt to convince her to come back to bed.

She’d been tempted. His sly reminder that there was more to discover from lovemaking had gnawed at her resolve and the thought that she’d just turned down the chance to see him completely naked, to explore all those incredible muscles and sinews at her leisure, was enough to have her question her sanity.

She buried her face in the pillow and let out a groan of frustration.

Was she the greatest idiot in England? A man she was irreversibly in love with had offered to make her his wife. The same man had a near-magical ability to give her unreasonable amounts of pleasure. True, he might not love her as ardently as she loved him, but surely that would have been a small price to pay? Half the weddings in thetonwere based on practical things like money and power, not love.

She punched the pillow and sat up.

No.She’d made the right decision. Accepting him would only have led to heartache, as would agreeing to an affair. He would tire of her and move on to someone new. It was far better to be the one doing the leaving.

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