Page 33 of His Brazen Tart
“I was wrong,” he replied. “I see that now.”
“You were influenced by someone else,” she accused. “Someone who has nothing to do with what we shared. You trusted her word over mine.”
“No!” Piers paused and took a deep breath, seeming to calm himself before pushing forward. “It had nothing to do with Lysandra.”
“It haseverythingto do with her,” Joan argued. “How can you not see that? And how can you say you love me, if you cannot trust me?”
As she began moving past him, suddenly finding it difficult to stand in his presence any longer, Piers moved to block her path. His eyes were wild and unfocused, his face flushed with emotion.
“Joan, I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “I’m so sorry, and I do trust you. I know I haven’t done enough to prove that, but I can … I will.”
Joan blinked back tears and studied Piers through a veil of aching need and hurt. His words were sincere, but just now they weren’t enough.
“I don’t believe you,” she declared, before side-stepping Piers and continuing on her way.
For the moment, she would locate Mary and convince her that it was time to leave. Her head had begun to ache, and she was seized with sudden fatigue. She could feel Piers’ gaze on her as she made her way through the crowd, but couldn’t bring herself to look back.
She believed that he truly did love her. Now that he’d said it, Joan realized her instincts had been right all along. The tenderness and camaraderie between them had been real, and rooted in something deeper than a contract. However, Joan didn’t think she could place herself into the hands of a man who so clearly didn’t trust his own heart, and therefore didn’t trust her. What might life be like with a man who was so determined to be in control that he allowed past hurts to hold him back from happiness. She’d had enough of misery and pain.
But, as she spotted Mary through the terrace doors and made her way outside, Joan was faced with a realization. Forgiving Piers might be difficult, but living without him might be even harder.
Chapter 13
Piers stared at the imposing structure of Joan’s front door from where he stood on the footpath. He had received a note from her this morning instructing him to call upon her in the evening. The sun had set a half-hour ago, and Piers would be deluding himself if he tried to pretend he hadn’t dashed here as if his arse were on fire. The past few weeks had been absolutely miserable. He had spent his spare time thinking about Joan and chastising himself over where he’d gone wrong. His attempt at mending the rift had, apparently, only worsened matters. Going to the ball he’d known she would attend had seemed like the best way to force an encounter with her. Once she was in his sights, he had found himself willing to do or say anything to win her back. He had hesitated only a moment when she’d asked him outright whether he loved her. Fear had seized him as it always did, but Piers had fought it off, knowing that this might prove his final chance. He had left the ball that night certain he’d lost Joan for good. Her accusation of his mistrust had been true and agonizing to hear. She was right, and he was a fool for thinking that telling Joan he loved her would be enough. He was too damaged, and she deserved so much better.
Only, now she wanted to see him, and Piers was hopeless to refuse. After receiving her note, Piers had spent the day telling himself to be rational. Just because she sent for him didn’t mean she wanted to reconcile. Besides, even if she did, what would that look like? Would she write him another bank draft and ask him to resume warming her bed? As much as he wanted to be near her again, Piers wouldn’t be able to go through with a new arrangement. Joan had made him long for more. If he couldn’t have her as his love, his wife, his solace in a world that had kicked him about since birth, then he shouldn’t have her at all.
Still, he wanted nothing more than to lay eyes on her again, even if this might be the last time. Had she called him here to say good-bye, or to offer him hope?
Taking a deep breath, he made his way to the door. He was greeted by Joan’s butler in short order, and at the presentation of his card, informed that he was expected. A footman was instructed with leading him to where the mistress of the house awaited.
Bemused, Piers followed the servant up the stairs and down a dim corridor. Joan had received him in her private chambers multiple times, but he hardly expected to be invited there now. The footman promptly left Piers in front of Joan’s door without announcing him. He swallowed past the bundle of nerves welling in his throat. The longer he dallied, the longer he would go on feeling uncertain and off-balance. He wouldn’t find answers by staring at a panel of wood.
His light knock was answered from the other side, Joan’s voice calling out, “Come!”
Piers faltered on the threshold of the bedchamber when he saw what awaited him. Joan stood before the bed, wearing a scrap of transparent black fabric—a mockery of a nightgown. The glow of the hearth and scattered candles showed him every curve and patch of smooth, ivory skin through the dark material. She leaned against one of the bedposts, holding something long and black in her hands. Piers was taken aback by the radiant smile on her face.
“Hello, Piers,” she purred. “Close the door.”
It wasn’t until after he had complied that Piers registered the imperious command in her words. He was so confounded by the inviting expression on her face and the warm sensuality of her voice, that he acted without thinking. The innate part of him that craved dominance bucked against being ordered around, but the need to breathe the same air as Joan won out. If nothing else, he could share space with her, look at her, and pray she wouldn’t end their meeting by telling him to leave.
“You …” he cleared his throat, his face heating as the words froze on his tongue. “You sent for me.”
“I did,” she replied, pushing away from the bedpost. “Thank you for coming. Please … sit.”
Piers froze as she gestured toward a settee with the object in her hand. He hadn’t been certain until she raised it into the light, which revealed the gleaming shaft and leather tongue of a riding crop. He frowned, wondering what the devil Joan was doing with a crop.
He started when she smacked the leather against her palm, before once again using the crop to point toward the settee.
“Piers … sit.”
He went down like a sack full of boulders, his jaw slackened and a little thrill running through him. The little minx was toying with him, and he wasn’t too prideful to admit he found it arousing as hell.
She approached with a satisfied smirk, tossing the crop onto a nearby table. Hands on hips, she stood before Piers, staring down at him with eyes that glistened with good humor. He couldn’t make sense of what was happening, but decided not to question it. If this was a dream, he didn’t want to wake.
“I have a question for you,” she said, slowly backing toward a chair across from him. “And I require an honest answer.”
“Very well.”
