Page 10 of Her Sort of Scoundrel
“I’m free now, Granford. I won’t be censored or controlled. I have no need to be beholden to a father or husband, and I refuse to be ever again.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
Fiona shot up from the chair she’d been sitting in and began pacing. She wore such a fierce expression that Dash squared his shoulders. This was it. He deserved every bit of it. Surely, she was preparing to rail at him.
They could finally undo what had been done that awful day.
When she continued to pace and said nothing, Dash urged her on. “Do your worst, Fiona. I deserve it.”
Fiona curledher hands into fists as she paced and resisted the urge to scream. Or throw something. Anything to smash through this formal politeness that Dash seemed insistent upon.
This version of him was too tame, too apologetic, too timid. This version reminded her of the young man she’d first met years ago at the Granford estate when she’d gone to visit her best friend, Caroline.
That youthful Dash had been infatuated with her, and it had charmed her and irked her in equal measure. She’d never wished to be anyone’s ideal. That was far too much to live up to. And, eventually, when she’d tried talking to him, she’d found him intelligent, rebellious, and tantalizingly impudent. He, like her, had a tendency to wish to break the rules and buck expectations and judgement. And his father had been a man of harsh judgements, as had hers. They’d understood each other.
But she didn’t understand the man in her conservatory, watching her with a sort of pleading sadness in his gaze.
“I’ve taken lovers.” The words burst from her lips without much thought as she gave in to a desire to shock him out of this awful, deferential manner he’d adopted.
When she flicked her gaze his way, a little thrill of victory shot through her.
He didn’t look at all pleased by that declaration.
“You see,” she told him triumphantly. “I told you that you wouldn’t like the ways I’ve changed.”
Those stormy green eyes of his focused on some spot across from him. He wouldn’t look her way.
Now she’d finally get a taste of the real Dashiel Forbes.
Unfolding his tall, muscular frame, he stood, took a deep breath, and faced her.
“I’m glad you have the autonomy to live as you wish, Fi. You deserve nothing less.”
That did it.
Before she could think better of it, she strode toward him until they were face to face, chest to chest, just a hairsbreadth away.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
A symphony of scents—cinnamon and coffee and something deeper, like a moonlit forest—made standing this close to him a dangerous choice.
Fiona breathed him in and could almost swear she heard his own breathing hitch.
“You know me better than anyone.” His words came out in slow, deliberate enunciation.
Fiona was aware of a ficus leaf fluttering to the tiles behind him, the glint of sunlight on one of the brass lamps she used to give the conservatory a warming glow at night.
All that noticing in an attempt to not let her senses be overwhelmed by him.
Finally, when she thought she’d prepared herself sufficiently, she met his gaze.
She had not, in fact, been ready.
This close, she could feel heat radiating off his body. He’d always run warm, and she’d often resisted the urge to lean into him when they sat side by side.
This close, she could see the strands of gold in his eyes.
This close, she could touch him. So she did. She laid a palm against his chest, but she couldn’t decide whether it was to entice him closer or push him away.
