Chapter Nineteen
“W e have more interesting conflicts,” he said with false lightness. “We must bill and coo.” Genova wanted to resist his warning and his deflection, but her courage failed her. She preferred to think of her cowardice as sensible caution.
“Only in public,” she said.
“I don’t remember that proviso.”
She looked at him over her fan. “Why would you want to bill and coo in private, my lord? We are nothing to each other.”
The smile was back, the wicked one that threatened impossible, mouthwatering delights. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“About the Mallorens…” She raised it deliberately as defense.
“About our attraction.”
“Our pretended attraction.”
“Our passion.”
“Our problem.”
“Our love.”
“Our war,” she retorted.
He laughed. “Very well, I will stage amor, and you will stage war, though I warn you, I lack experience in my role.”
She raised her brows in disbelief, and he said, “We’d need another word.”
“You won’t shock me, my lord. I know them all.”
“How interesting.”
She recognized that her retort, though true, had been unwise. It had given him a wrong impression. But at least he wouldn’t presume that he was dealing with a naive miss.
“So, let us plan war,” she said, “since that is unambiguous.”
“Is it? You will need provocation. Shall I let you find me in another woman’s bed?”
“It would give me cause,” she agreed, hating the thought. “But wouldn’t you end up at the altar?”
“Not if the lady was married.”
She was caught unawares by that. “Then at sword’s point with her husband? I’ll have no blood spilled over this, my lord. I must have your word on that.”
“Must,” he echoed. “You have a too commanding disposition, Miss Smith.”
“You’re probably correct, but I mean what I say. I will not be a cause of bloodshed. You must avoid that.”
He sighed and held out a hand. “Come here.”
Her heart thumped. “Why?”
“To pay your forfeit.”
“I agreed to no forfeit.”
“Even so.”
She licked her lips, knowing she should ignore him, should rise and walk away, but it was as if she was snared—by the exhilaration of the fight, by the razor-edge of danger, by him. She knew she’d taunted him, hoping for something like this.
“You cannot force this, my lord.”
“No?”
“Very well, you will not. It would be the action of a knave.”
He was watching her in a way that would send a sensible woman screaming into the night. “I grant you a counterforfeit, then.”
“What?”
“You may choose something for which I must pay a forfeit in turn.”
“You are drunk.”
At last she stood, but too late. He caught her wrist and tugged her back down, closer on the seat. She tried to pull free, but he tightened his grip. She didn’t fight very hard. Her blood was singing in mad delight.
“You’re cold,” he said, sounding surprised.
Of course the man who’d voluntarily ridden outside all day did not feel the cold like a normal person. He let her go and clasped her hands in wonderfully warm ones, gently massaging them. She suppressed a groan at the pleasure of it.
“Come, Genova,” he murmured, “I propose a game, no more. Christmas is time for games, and it will help us play our parts.”
“Your game seems more like a challenge to me.” But she was melting so much under his warm touch that she was surprised she wasn’t sliding off the seat into a puddle.
“An easy challenge.” He raised her hands to blow first into one palm, then into the other. “To avoid penalty, you have only to avoid giving me orders. And, of course, you have only to command me if you want a kiss.”
The confident glint in his eyes should have given her strength to resist, but instead it made her want this game more. “What if I make your forfeit for you kissing me?”
“Somewhat circular, but why not? What shall I pay? More kisses? A circle of delights. No, a spiral, like a whirlpool…”
Alarmed by that image, she pulled free. “Guineas.”
He stared, all humor wiped away. “I did not think you mercenary.”
She put distance and cool air between them. “I see no reason why I shouldn’t be, but as it happens, the guineas won’t be for me, but for the baby.”
She saw him react with sharp impatience, and her shiver was not of pleasure this time.
She raised her chin. “I may not be able to force you to admit your responsibility and provide for Charlie, my lord, but now I can compel you to provide the funds. Anytime I must.”
After a moment he laughed. “Very well, my . A guinea a kiss. How many guineas, I wonder, are needed to support a child for life? A hundred? A thousand?” His voice mellowed into a seductive purr. “In how many days?”
Her mouth and throat dried.
No wonder he’d laughed.
“We have an agreement, Miss Smith?”
Kisses were only kisses. It rang hollow in her mind, but she would not, could not, back down. This would all be under her control.
She stirred moisture in her mouth and swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”
He captured her hand again, sliding closer. “Then come let us start our account.”
Every scrap of sense screamed a warnings but the rest of Genova sank willingly into the whirlpool so that his last word was murmured against her lips and sealed them.
Need for this had been building since their morning kiss, had been mounting to fiery heat during their debate, and was crowned by his mastery now.
His hands, clever hands, traveled over her, and hers were doing the same. She slid one beneath his jacket, savoring the hot, hard lines of ribs and hip and spine. Another cradled his head, holding him close, as if he might try to escape before she’d had her fill.
It had been so long, too long, since she’d kissed a man like this.
She’d never kissed a man like this.
Never a man like this…
His mouth was hot and skilled, with a taste still new, but remembered from the morning and already delicious.
It stirred fires in her she’d never imagined.
Soon her whole body burned for him, rubbed against him as if layers of clothing could melt away and bring them, as she scandalously longed to be, skin to searing skin… .
It was he who broke the kiss, he who put space between them.
For pride’s sake, Genova stopped herself from pursuing. At least he looked as wild as she felt, eyes dark, breaths deep. His disordered coat, hair, and cravat were, she knew, entirely her work.
She had to say something, something that would cover the way she felt. “I think that’s more than a guinea’s worth, my lord.”
“What’s the price for a night, then?”
After a devastated moment, she slapped him.
She surged to her feet to run, but he caught her to him. “I apologize. I apologize! I didn’t mean it like that.” Then he laughed. “Yes, I did, but I meant no slur. Lord,” he groaned, “I can’t even make sense.”
She pushed and he let her go. She gathered herself as best she could. “I accept the apology, my lord. I think we were both a little carried away.”
“A little…”
She had to conceal how strongly she’d been affected. If he knew, he’d pursue and she’d drown in the flames. Could one drown in flames…?
“There must be no more of this,” she said, proud of her flat voice.
“Must,” he repeated softly.
She put out a hand to hold him off, though he hadn’t made a move.
“Yet we must act the lovers for a day or two, Genova.”
“Not like that!”
“No, alas. Not like that.”
She was braced for attack and afraid she would succumb, but he turned and picked up something from the window seat. It was the pins and combs that had held her hair in place. She put up a hand and found it in wild disorder. It was thick and heavy and must look a tawdry mess.
She gathered it with shaking hands into a tight knot and took a proffered pin to skewer it in place.
Then another, and another, reassembling Genova Smith, woman of sense.
The combs were decorative, and she thrust them in last. Her hair could look nothing like Regeanne’s skillful arrangement, but it would look vaguely as she was used to wearing it.
He was watching her, his face shadowed, for his back was to the light Could he hear her pounding heart? Could he smell her perfume as she smelled a spicy, subtle scent from him?
She tried to hold him off with words. “Remember, my lord, if you seduce me, I will hold you to the betrothal.”
After a moment, he nodded. “Then be strong for both of us, Genova Smith, for we will be dancing very close to the flames.”
He picked up her shawl, clearly intending to wrap it around her, but she grabbed it and backed toward the arch. “There’s no need to escort me, my lord.”
He stayed where he was, all cool, disordered, desirable elegance in the moonlight. “Perhaps I was hoping you knew the way back.”
“Back to where?”
“Ah, an interesting question. For we’re not where we were when you entered this room, are we?”
Breath caught by that, Genova turned and walked out of the gallery.
Ash watched the place where he’d last glimpsed Genova Smith, his body still hot with desire for her, with dangerous, irrational physical need.
The woman was magnificent, but terrifying. She seemed to accept no boundaries, and he did not want her hurt by whatever happened here. He wanted her, but that way would lead to a disastrous marriage. She was not the bride he needed.
He remembered his coarse, appalling words and groaned. When had he last said anything so clumsy?
Perhaps never.
Why? Why had those words escaped?
Because he’d been thinking them. Thinking them in his mind, in his blood, in his throbbing cock. Hades! She could inflame him like spark to tinder. He pushed his hands against his temples. Once was enough. No other woman was going to rip his life apart with rich curves and wicked, knowing eyes.
His fingers touched his hair and he realized the destruction the woman had wrought. He pulled the loosened ribbon free, memory rippling through him. If Genova Smith had been insinuated into the great-aunts’ household with this in mind, Rothgar had chosen his weapon well.
He walked to confront his cousin’s austere portrait. “My bane, as always,” he said under his breath. “Are you behind Molly’s plot? Is Genova Smith your tool? This time you won’t win, not even with a siren on your side.”
A siren that didn’t sing but argued.
Havoc.
A good word. The ancient battle cry that swept away all rules of war and set free rape, slaughter, and destruction. “Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war.”
Dogs. A Persian gazelle hound that had been trained not to go after the quarry it had been bred to kill.
There hadn’t been a single word between him and Rothgar without meaning.
“You should not let her ride and spur you.”
Ash cursed at the portrait and strode out of the room.
Genova entered her bedchamber quietly. Three candles and firelight made it welcoming, but the bed-curtains were open and the bed was empty. For a moment her overwrought nerves threw up wild scenarios of murder or kidnapping.
By the next breath she knew what had happened. Thalia had rested a little, then realized that a game of whist was possible and that had been enough.
Regeanne helped Genova out of her gown, hoops, and stays, but then Genova said she would do the rest herself. She wasn’t used to a lady’s maid.
She washed and put on her nightgown, which was warm from hanging before the fire. The bed would be cozy, too, for the handles of two warming pans stuck out of the covers. She moved one over to Thalia’s side, drew the heavy curtains all around, then settled into the haven.
Warmth, however, did not soothe unwelcome heat.
Was it truly unwelcome?
How was it even possible that she feel this way? She and the marquess were strangers in every way.
She might as well protest that rock cannot burn. She’d seen lava flow, as hot and molten as the desire that had erupted between her and a stranger on a moonlit window seat.