“Don’t think it,” he said flatly.
“I don’t—”
“Yes, you do.” His expression hardened. “You owe me nothing. I started the process of finding your father’s medals long before I asked you to become my lover.”
Before she could remind herself that touching him was dangerous, she took his hand. “I’m sorry. And so grateful.”
He frowned and she waited for him to retreat, but he turned his hand over and laced their fingers together. This contact of skin on skin grounded her in a way that nothing else had in these last weeks. “I don’t want your gratitude.”
She bit her lip, wanting to tell him that she’d be his mistress, seeing only ruin and heartbreak ahead if she did.
With a muttered expletive, he released her. “Don’t look at me like that, my girl, as if you’ve no idea what I’m talking about.” He stood and stalked toward the window, keeping his back to her. “You know exactly what I want from you, and bloody gratitude has absolutely nothing to do with it.”
Tonbridge, Kent, November
Greengrass slammed into his room at the King’s Head and in disgust flung the day’s pitiful pickings onto the deal table beneath the window. The coins’ clatter was nowhere near as satisfying as it had been in Taunton.
He was running out of fresh territories. No matter how desperate they were, the women he’d threatened six months ago lacked ready money for a second round of blackmail. The buzz of recent sexual satisfaction warmed his blood—they still had something to offer—but cash proved harder to get.
He tugged the diary from his coat—he wasn’t fool enough to leave it lying around—and tossed it on top of his takings. Perhaps the time had come to catch the fat pigeon he’d been holding in store. The proud and noble Marquess of Leath would surely pay good brass to keep this family scandal under wraps.
Greengrass had waited to pluck this particular bird because it would only come to his hand once. Now the prospect of this final haul off the diary, and a rich one at that, made his fleshy lips spread in a gloating smile.
Chapter Fifteen
Leath rode toward the river with Miss Trim trailing behind on her chestnut. They were on their way to one of the most isolated farms on his domain. The afternoon was gray and stormy, befitting his cantankerous humor. It was sheer hell wanting a woman who didn’t want you.
Except he’d lay money that Eleanor did want him. He’d glimpsed enough longing looks when she thought he didn’t notice to realize that he wasn’t the only one suffering a bad case of frustration.
He understood why she’d said no. She wasn’t a woman to give herself lightly. He’d been a cad to ask her. Her refusal, while a blow, had been expected. Eleanor Trim deserved better than to become some rich man’s toy. Even if this particular rich man felt like his yen for his mother’s companion was the most serious issue in a life dedicated to serious issues.
Long hours near Miss Trim without touching her counted as torture. But despite the excruciating deprivation, he wasn’t looking forward to Crane’s return.
Poor Crane. At this rate, Leath would push him off another horse just to enjoy Miss Trim’s company for an extra month or two.
So low had the Marquess of Leath fallen.
He hadn’t fallen quite as low as he might. Every night, he lay restless in his huge bed and imagined slamming into the library the next morning and sweeping Eleanor into his arms and kissing her until she couldn’t spell the word “no.”
Then the sun would rise and he’d remember that while he wanted Miss Trim, he also liked and respected her. Once, the threat of scandal would have deterred him. Now inconvenient fondness held him back from testing his rusty seductive wiles. So instead of snatching what he wanted, he would set out on another headlong gallop across the moors, hoping against hope that fresh air and speed would make him feel better.
An utterly futile endeavor.
The depth of empathy he felt for Miss Trim was more terrifying than his rapacious desire. After all, he was a man and she was a beautiful girl. He’d be unnatural not to want her. But he only had to recall his reaction when she’d sobbed over her father’s war records to know that more happened here than a physical itch. That day, he’d wanted to hold her forever and give her everything she wanted. The overwhelming drive to protect her had left him reeling.
That overwhelming drive was more dangerous than desire. Even when desire flung him to the brink of madness.
At the riverbank, he reined in his horse and turned back to Miss Trim. She looked tired and downcast. The troublesome sexual awareness between them played on her nerves too.
“Be careful. The bank is chancy and the river is swollen after the rain.”
“Yes, sir,” she responded in a subdued voice.
She’d been quiet since she’d cried in his arms. Perhaps his confession that he wanted more than gratitude had frightened her. He really should send her away. Neither of them could find peace while they were together.
But the thought of losing Nell made him want to howl denial. Seeing her was agonizing. Not seeing her would be worse. His London cronies always said Lord Leath reserved his passion for politics. How they’d laugh to see him now.
A shout from beyond the river bend pierced his brooding. This part of the moors was miles from the nearest habitation, usually home to only birds and the wind.