“Yes. I mean, no.” She raised a shaking hand in its black leather glove. “You’re trying to intimidate me.”
He still smiled. “If I am, I’d say I’m succeeding.”
She drew herself up to her full height. She was tall for a woman, but didn’t come near to matching his more than six feet. “I told you why I’m here. I won’t fight you. There’s no need to play the villain from an opera.”
“You’ll endure my distasteful caresses but won’t let me take your cloak? Seems a little silly.”
She stopped backing away, purely because she bumped into the stone wall behind her. Her eyes flared gold with anger. “Don’t mock me.”
“Why not?” he asked lazily. He reached to release the ties at her throat.
She pressed into the wall in a futile attempt to escape. “I don’t like it.”
“You’ll get used to it.” His hands brushed along her shoulders, feeling trembling tension beneath the saturated wool. “Before we’re done, you’ll get used to a great deal.”
Bleak self-awareness hardened her expression. “I imagine you’re right.”
The amusement left his voice. “Roberta isn’t worth this, you know.”
The girl—Miss Forsythe, Sidonie—stared back without shying away. “Yes, she is. You don’t understand.”
“I daresay I don’t.” If the wench wa
s determined to rush to perdition, who was he to argue? Especially as she smelled agreeably of rain and a faint evocative hint of woman. When he slid the cape from her shoulders and let it fall in a sodden heap, he revealed a body pleasingly curved to fit his hands.
She gasped as the garment slipped, then stood quivering. Her jaw set with truculent determination. “I’m ready.”
“I doubt you are, bella.” He paid closer attention to her clothing and spoke with genuine horror. “What on earth have you got on?”
The look she shot him indicated virulent dislike. “What’s wrong with it?”
He cast a disapproving glance over the ruffled white muslin, too young for her, too light for the wretched night, too unfashionable, too… everything. “Nothing, if you’re dressing to play the virgin sacrifice.”
“Why not?” she said with a revival of spirit. “I am a virgin.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course you are. Which begs the question why you’re presenting me with your maidenhead instead of letting your fool sister clean up her own mess.”
“You’re offensive, sir.”
He muffled a laugh. She proved more amusing than Roberta. At the very least, Roberta would have treated him to a display of hysterics by now. He couldn’t picture this grave goddess resorting to such dramatics. Perhaps this was his lucky night after all. His lurking frustration at Roberta’s maneuvers, fading under the influence of this lovely girl’s defiance, vanished. Trapping Roberta had been no great challenge, however satisfying the prospect of swiving his loathed cousin’s wife. Seducing Sidonie Forsythe promised fine sport indeed.
“It’s my best dress,” Miss Forsythe said huffily.
He subjected the limp frill at her décolletage to a derisive flick. “Perhaps when you were fifteen.” His gaze sharpened. “Just how old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” she muttered. “How old are you?”
“Too old for you.” At thirty-two, perhaps he wasn’t too old in years but he was a million years too old in experience. And he hadn’t spent those million years wisely.
Sudden hope lit her expression. “Does that mean you’ll let me go?”
This time he laughed openly. “Not on your life.”
Her spiking fear might send her scarpering. He curled one hand around her shoulder, bare under her flimsy bodice. At the contact, something inexplicable arced between them. When startled pansy eyes shot up to meet his, he tumbled headlong into soft brown. She trembled as his hold gentled to shape the graceful curve of bone and sinew.
“What are you waiting for?” she forced through stiff lips.
He should be horsewhipped for tormenting her, but still curiosity was paramount. He raised his other hand to her jaw, angling her face. This close, he could make out each individual eyelash and the gold striations in her rich irises. Her nostrils flared as though she took in his scent just as he took in hers.