Page 74 of The Heiress's Daughter
“But you abide by them?”
He changed the subject. “It ought to be Leo, as your guardian, who makes the official betrothal announcement, and Iex pect he’ll be back from the honeymoon in the next week or two. In the meantime we should be seen together in public at every opportunity, and let the gossips do the work for us.”
“You mean people will be gossiping about you and me, as well as Mr. Clayborn and me?” She closed her eyes briefly. She hated being the focus of people’s attention.
“They already are. My cousin Maggie, who wasn’t at the ball last night, has already heard. She sent a congratulatory note around this morning.”
She opened her eyes. “You mean she believed in the betrothal? On the basis of a rumor?”
“She’s been predicting it since that first ride we took together.”
“That first ride?” Clarissa almost choked. How could Maggie possibly think…Shecouldn’tknow. She had been perfectly circumspect about her feelings for Lord Randall, she was sure.
He gave her a lazy smile. “She’s delighted. Said to give you her warmest felicitations, and to tell you she said, ‘welcome to the family.’ ”
Welcome to the family? Oh, this was dreadful. “Why didn’t you tell her it was a false betrothal, a pretense, a subterfuge?”
“Because it’s not. As I said, it’s genuine and binding until you decide you can’t marry me.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Why not?” His voice was deep and low and somehow…caressing.
Unable to find the words, she shook her head. “I just can’t.”
His voice deepened and he leaned a little closer. “That’s not an answer, Clarissa. Why do you feel you can’t marry me?”
Again, she shook her head and refused to meet his eyes.
“As far as I’m concerned there is only one reason you can’t marry me—because you don’t love me.” He paused. “Is that it, sweetheart? You don’t love me?”
Her face crumpled at the soft voice, the endearment, the gentle insistence. “Stop it! It’s not fair. You ask me how I feel, but I know you can’t possibly love me and—”
“Why can’t I?”
She stared at him, shocked at what he was implying. “You can’t,” she whispered.
“Why not?” He was so close she could feel his warm breath on her skin.
“Because…because…”
Cupping her chin in his hand, he raised her face and kissed her, gently at first, brushing his lips over hers. The caress was so soft it tantalized…and teased. And entranced. She knew she shouldn’t, knew she should resist, should push him away from her. Should flee.
But the taste of him was addictive. She wanted more.
She took a deep breath and pressed her mouth against him, opening it in mute invitation. Instantly he responded, and the kiss changed from soft and sweet to hot, spicy and demanding.
Conflagration. Heat, dark and dangerous and exhilarating. She was melting against him, clinging to him like a drowning woman, only she wasn’t drowning: she was floating. Gloriously.
Eventually something—some distant sound—pulled her out of the dreamlike state his kisses produced.
She tore her mouth away and rested her face against his shoulder with her eyes closed, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she fought for some semblance of composure. She wanted to burrow into his chest and stay there forever, and at the same time wanted to run from him as fast and far as she could.
He was going to break her heart. If she let him.
He smoothed back her hair, and with one finger lightly caressed the nape of her neck. Delicious shivers ran through her.
Oh, he was so good at this, so skilled, so…practiced. The word was like a dash of cold water.
