Page 75 of The Forbidden Lord
“I’ll kill him tomorrow,” he muttered, only half-facetiously. No one should ever be allowed to see her like this. No one but him.
Sternly, he reminded himself of why she had probably come. Crossing to the chaise longue, he picked up his brandy snifter and took a great gulp of the fiery liquor. If only it could smother the greater fire in his loins. But that wasn’t likely. Only one thing would smother that fire, and although she stood before him wearing the most enticing of gowns, she wasn’t available.
He refused to look at her. If he did, he couldn’t be responsible for his actions. “I suppose you’ve come here dressed like that because you think it’ll distract me from my purpose.”
“No.”
The softly spoken answer took him by surprise. He whirled to stare at her. “You’re not hoping to make me give up my plans?”
“Actually, I’ve come to … offer you a bargain.” Her chin was trembling and her hands, too, but she held herself as proudly straight as if she were dressed in a Quaker’s prudish woolen dress. “You said at the opera that you want me. Well—” She hesitated a moment, as if gathering her courage. Then she swept her hands downward to indicate her body. “You can have me.”
For the first time in his life, he found himself utterly speechless. Surely she didn’t mean what he thought she meant. Not his virginal rector’s daughter.
At his silence, she went on more nervously. “I’ll give you my body freely for one night. In exchange, you must promise not to speak to Lord Nesfield or Mr. Pollock.” She took a deep breath, then went on in a rush. “I won’t expect anything of you other than that. I don’t want you to marry me. I merely want you to keep quiet.”
And for that, she would do this? For a moment, he actually considered the offer and all it would mean. He could strip off her gown and caress each golden curve. He could fondle those sweetbreasts, part those slender legs and bury himself deep inside her with impunity. He could find release. Finally.
After all, he’d never really intended to go to Nesfield. It had all been a bluff.
But if he gave in, accepted her offer, he’d lose his only method of convincing her to tell him the truth. No, he couldn’t give that up. She offered him this because she was desperate, not because she wished to share his bed. It was obvious how desperate, for she was as skittish as a filly at her first mating. She couldn’t seem to stop fiddling with the deuced gown, and her eyes swept his study as if searching for the monsters sure to be lurking behind his bookshelves.
Devil take her for this. “Your scheme means so much to you that you’d prostitute yourself to save it?”
She flinched at the word “prostitute,” but it didn’t seem to halt her in her purpose. “Yes. The purpose of my masquerade is more noble than you think, and if you end it before—” Anger flashed in her eyes, then was gone. “You must believe me. Many people will be ruined if you speak to Lord Nesfield. And yes, I’ll do anything to keep that from happening.” Reaching up, she removed the pins from her hair, sending the rope of golden silk cascading down about her shoulders. “Anything you want.”
A jolt of desire turned his knees to rubber. The scent of lavender teased him, and when she shook out her long hair, he thought he’d gone to a rake’s heaven.
Or a rake’s hell. “What kind of man do you think I am?” he choked out, as much to convince himself as her. “Do you really think I’d take your innocence for any reason?”
“You needn’t … worry about that.” She tilted her chin up. “It’s not a concern.”
His blood ran cold. He couldn’t have heard her right. “What do you mean?”
She drew a shaky breath. “There’s no ‘innocence’ for you to take. I’m not as pure as you think.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why not? How do you think I could play Lady Emma so convincingly? Evenyouweren’t sure who I was. Do you know any virgins who behave as I did?” She thrust out her chest, taunting him to look at the breasts that fairly burst to be free of the velvet. “Would they wear a gown like this to an unmarried man’s home?”
She was playing Lady Emma now, wasn’t she? The experienced Lady Emma. The tempting Lady Emma. It was all a role. Wasn’t it?
Sidling up to him, she removed the brandy snifter from his numb fingers and set it down on the nearby desk. Then she laid her perfect little hand on his chest and began to unbutton his shirt. “Come now, Jordan, surely you’ve wondered if I might be … less than pure. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have believed Mr. Pollock’s tales.”
“I didn’t … believe them,” he murmured, though his throat had suddenly shrunk to a tiny passageway that barely allowed air in or out of his body. If she didn’t step away from him soon …
Another button. Another. “Yes, you did. And with good reason.”
Jealousy exploded behind his eyes. “So you did let him kiss you?”
She wouldn’t look at him. “He kissed me, yes. And … and touched me.”
“Is he the one who?—”
“No, of course not.” Her hand went still on his shirt front. “It happened before I came to London. You don’t know the man.”
That roused his suspicions, though she didn’t seem to notice. Oh, no, she merely went on unbuttoning his shirt, edging soclose that he could only watch in utter fascination as her breasts lifted and fell more quickly with each breath.
At leastshecould breathe. He’d given up on it altogether.
