She couldn’t see his face, but she knew by his voice that he was smiling. “Oh, Lydia, sweetheart, you know me better than that.”
She stiffened, partly against what he’d said, but even more against the need to venture closer to that strong, warm body and let his deep voice whisper beguiling lies in her ear. At seventeen, she’d been humiliatingly susceptible to his charms. It was most depressing to discover that at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, she was even more susceptible. She’d learned nothing from her unhappiness.
“No, I don’t,” she said, as much for her benefit as for his. “You abandoned me ten years ago, wreaked havoc, then fled beyond reach of the consequences.”
“Should I have asked you to come with me? Your father’s anger would have known no bounds. He’d have disowned you then set out to destroy everyone who gave us aid. We would have been like outlaws. I couldn’t force you into a life unworthy of you.”
“Did you even consider it?” she asked acidly.
He sighed and she couldn’t mistake his sadness, no matter how she tried to tell herself that he’d never given a fig for her. “Of course I considered it.”
“Easy to say now.”
“You’ve become very cynical in your old age.”
“Only where you’re concerned.” She straightened and wrapped her shawl more securely around her shoulders, fighting the temptation to relent. There was no benefit in extending this encounter. He wasn’t going to give her straight answers. Even if he did, what was the point? She was promised to Grenville Berwick. It was too late to repair the mistakes of her youth. “I want to go home.”
“No, you don’t.” He shifted to sit beside her, ignoring how she stiffened in disapproval. “And don’t tell me you want me to stay over there in the cold.”
“It’s not cold.”
“Feels like it.” He grabbed her hands and refused to release them when she tugged. “Every time you open your mouth, the temperature drops another five degrees.”
“Let me go.” Her demand emerged as a thready plea. She could hardly blame him for ignoring it.
“I’ve tried to be strong, Lydia.” His voice was hoarse and his grip firmed to the verge of bruising. “But keeping away from you is more than mortal flesh can bear. I feel like I haven’t touched you for a century.”
“We’ve danced together,” she said unsteadily.
“Under a thousand eyes.”
“Stop it.” She pressed into the corner, but he still felt too near. Her heart raced so fast, she felt dizzy. Or perhaps that was the effect of Simon’s scent of soap and healthy male. Still so familiar, still so fiendishly alluring. “I’m engaged to another man.”
“Whom you don’t love.” With daunting efficiency, he stripped the gloves from her hands.
The close darkness added a fraught edge to her dilemma. Occasionally since his return, Lydia had deceived herself that Simon was the gentle, protective boy from her childhood. Now she woke sharply to the fact that he was a fully grown man with a fully grown—and very worldly—man’s desires.
The perception should terrify her. Instead the energy throbbing between them made her feel alive for the first time since she was seventeen.
“If you persist, I will throw myself out of this carriage.” Thank goodness, this time her voice sounded like it belonged to a woman in control of her destiny.
“No, you won’t.” His tone lowered to vibrant urgency. Neither commented on Lydia’s lack of response to Simon’s statement that she didn’t love Grenville. “It’s impossible to sit here without kissing you.”
He’d said something similar just before he’d turned her life upside down, then consigned her to crippling loneliness. She snatched her hands back. “Control yourself.”
“Why are you marrying that overbearing windbag, Lydia?”
“He’s a good man.”
“No, he’s not. He’s a self-satisfied bully who will crush every spark of spirit from you.”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know the type. Your father was exactly like that.”
Horror suffocated her. Dear God, Simon couldn’t possibly be right that she’d settled on Grenville because he reminded her of her father. Just the suggestion made the gorge rise in her throat.
She pressed back against the seat to evade the words. “No.”