The spell broke. Katherine turned and plucked a stick from the wall.
Markham strode to the door. “Coming, Bromton?”
She held her breath—
“The lady and I are not finished,” Bromton said.
—and then exhaled.
“Well, I am.” Markham’s footsteps slowly faded.
She sensed Lord Bromton at her back with a strange, new perception. Disconcertingly, she wished herself free of her dowdy clothes. Discreetly, she adjusted her fichu. Then, she turned.
Unfortunately, she had not shocked the marquess. Instead, he appeared intent. Dangerously intent. And he trained his gaze on her person as if, from that point on, he expected to make her his first and primary concern.
She’d never been anyone’s first concern, let alone their most important.
“Markham and I were playing Carambole. Would you prefer Hazzards or the Winning Game?”
“What was that?” she asked.
He lifted a brow. “Your purpose was to play billiards, was it not?”
“Of course.” Her color heightened.
“Well,” he said, focusing on the table, “different rules and objectives apply depending on what game you choose to play. Let us start simple, shall we? The red ball is three points, the white, two.” He opened his arm. “I can help you find the correct position, if you’d like.”
She approached the table, leaving a healthy distance between them. “I prefer to discern things for myself.”
“You prefer control.”
He closed the distance.
“As do you.” She forced a steady breath. “We are equal in our preference.”
“Equality between the sexes.” He tsked. “And you accused me of holding radical thoughts.”
“I spoke only of a specific preference.” She kept her voice light. “In the broader sense, ladies are superior in every way. Why else would you men work so very hard to limit us?”
“Tell me,” he spoke against her ear, “are you revolutionizing the Southford youth during those Sunday lessons of yours?”
“Ah,” she said, refusing to be distracted by his breath and the prickling sensations it caused. “You’ve been inquiring after me.”
“Yes,” he confirmed without apology.
She took a deep breath. “Then you know there is nothing radical about my lessons. An intelligent, skilled tenant is an asset.”
His knee brushed against the back of her skirts. “An excellent point.”
“Now, where was I?” She flashed a glance over her shoulder. “Room please.”
He bowed and moved aside. She leaned over the table with slow, determined grace and then shifted on her heel. Not much, but enough to give her backside a sway.
He cleared his throat. “It’s grown a bit warm in here, don’t you think?”
She cast him a scowl. “You are trying to distract me.”
“I am trying to distract you?”
“Of course. I am the one concentrating.” She stood back up and removed her fichu. “It is warm.” She draped it over his arm. “You don’t mind, do you?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Not at all.”
She stepped between him and the table. A tactical error. He hadn’t moved as far as she calculated, forcing her to wiggle past his thighs. His hot, hard thighs.
Billiards had suddenly become an exceedingly dangerous sport.
“Pardon.” She swiveled to face him, smiling sweetly.
“No pardon is required.”
Oh, bother. Flirtation was supposed to give her the upper hand. Flirtation was not supposed to make her aware of the air kissing her throat’s exposed skin or the ache in her breasts. She was not supposed to be wishing the billiards room had a door—a locking door. And her eyes were definitely not supposed to follow his jawline from his ear to his—
“Goodness.” She frowned. “That is quite a cut.”
“Your nocturnal staff is astonishingly solicitous. Ever try shaving without sleep?”
Heavens. She’d caused him injury. Blood rushed to her neck. Her cheeks. Her temple.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
His gaze narrowed. “No, you aren’t.”
She had been. She wasn’t any longer. She turned on her heel, leaned back over the table, closed one eye, and struck—using a single ball to strike two. A perfect cannon.
He growled low in his throat. “You’ve done this before.”
She plucked her fichu off his arm, careful not to brush him with her fingers. Then, she moved away to replace the bit of lace.
“This room is a man’s refuge,” she mocked her brother. “As if I would never make use of a perfectly good billiards table.”
“I can think of several novel uses right now.”
She stopped moving. He could not possibly mean what she thought he meant. The sensual implication left her breathless.
“I cannot say,” she said slowly, “I appreciate your tone.”
“Really…?” His voice was lower than she had ever heard. “You set the tone, Katie.”
“You do not have permission to call me Katie.” Only Septimus had called her Katie. How mortified he would be if he could see her now. “You may have deceived Markham, but you do not deceive me. Why won’t you just go away?”
Bromton allowed the silence between them to thicken like suffocating heat, all the while observing her with that look. That curious, aroused, searching look.
“Do you play often?” he finally asked.
She blinked. “Did you hear me?”
“You were heard and understood,” he replied. “Do you play often?”
“You seem to understand a great deal, yet you fail to comply.” She dropped her cue. “If you won’t go, I will.”
He stopped her mid-stride, putting his massive self between her and the corridor. In his eyes, she was already claimed. Her throat dried. He took a step forward, and she, a step back. He took another step forward, she, another back—the predatory dance ended when the back of her thighs hit the table.
“Brute,” she spat.
“Unfair.” He spoke to her lips. “We’ve barely touched.”
“Perfectly fair.” She grasped the edge of the table. “You are using your size as an advantage.”
“And you used sensual wiles for the same.” His button nicked the bare part of her arm—just below her sleeve and above her glove. “As a gentleman, I promise never to call you the proper name for that kind of person, whether you give me permission or not.”
“My acting like,” she swallowed, “a hellion does not forgive you acting like a brute.”
“Is hellion the word you’d choose?” He snorted. “Very well then, hellion, you’ve deprived me of sleep. You’ve deprived me of food.” His eyes flashed as he leaned in. “And you played me for a fool.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t assume”—she bent back—“you know more than anyone else in the room.”
He cupped her jaw with one hand. “Perhaps you shouldn’t assume I am a scoundrel with dishonorable intent.”
“What do you want, Lord Bromton?” The question held more breath than she’d intended. “I know you want something, and I don’t believe it is me.”
Isn’t it? His eyes asked the question as his thumb burned a line across her cheek.
“And,” she said, “stop falling silent just to make me breathless and confu—” She ceased abruptly. “Breathless and angry,” she finished.
With his free hand, he worked her cap far enough back to release a single lock of hair. “For now, all I want”—his cheek brushed against her forehead—“is the courtesy of an answer.”
She blinked. Furiously. Her eyelashes brushed against his hot, unforgiving skin.
“Did you ask a question?”
“I asked if you play often,” he murmured.
Was he referring to billiards? “No.”
“Who taught you to play?” he asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Perhaps
not.” His breath shuddered. “So long as—from now on—you play only with me.”
She closed her eyes. She wasn’t certain what was happening. However, just because a handsome, heady-smelling, hard-bodied marquess demanded exclusive rights to her billiards, did not mean she was obligated to comply.
“Is my consequence so grand you cannot hold a simple conversation?” he asked.
“I taught myself to play,” she said, raising her chin. His hands followed. “I can’t say I derive much pleasure from Carambole.”
“How odd.” His hum came from his groin. “I just discovered a great deal of pleasure I never knew in the game.”
She blushed and looked away.
“Red,” he said, lifting her lock of hair, “in the right pocket.” He tucked the strands back under her cap. “Three points for me.”
He rubbed his cheek against hers. The sensual slide of skin against skin felt depraved, more so than anything she’d ever experienced. The hardness against her belly was nothing less than sin.
Primal seduction, on whole, executed by a man who admitted he had not, and likely could never, love.
“Lord Bromton,” her voice cracked, “my life is not a game.”
He conceded a paltry inch of space. “All of life is a game,” he replied. “A game you have ceased to play.”
“I play.” She ignored the fiery sensations racing through her chest. “I play by the rules.”
He raised his brows.
“—mostly.”
“You’ve roused a great deal more than just my interest, Katherine. Do you really wish to slink away?”
“I do not slink.”
“You do. You’ve been hiding behind these ridiculous clothes, and now you are attempting to retreat into some darkened corner of your mind.”
Blast his powers of observation. “Bromton.” She, too, could shock with nomenclature liberties. “Every moment you spend under this roof puts me at risk.”
“Perhaps. Yet, where there is risk, there is reward. And, you long to take up my challenge, don’t you?”
Yes. She sucked in. “Your presence also endangers Lady Julia. That, I cannot forgive.”
His searching look returned.
“None of us,” she pressed her advantage, “can afford another scandal. Markham must marry well so Julia can be presented at court.”
“Markham will marry. Lady Julia will be presented at court. And what, dear hellion, will happen to you?”
The way he said hellion intensified the ache between her legs.
“Nothing will happen to me. My life will remain stagnant.”
“Are you satisfied with stagnant?”
Satisfied? Satisfied? She was not satisfied in any sense of the word. How could she be? Bromton had awakened every part of her she’d labored to suppress. It would be a long time before simple would satisfy again, the wretch.
He answered for her. “You could never be satisfied with stagnant. Not a woman as vibrant as you.”
A quiver of panic fluttered at the base of her throat. “I am not vibrant. I am ordinary.”
“You are far from ordinary.”
She must have released the table, because when she looked down, her fingers were caught in his. She scowled down at her hands as if they were misbehaving children. Even through kid leather, his thumbs—slightly rough, very hot—explored her knuckles.
She looked up, still scowling. “And you are unsettling.”
“Not half as unsettling”—he angled his head—“as you are…to me.”
His to was half kiss, and his me, all pleasure. Sensation saturated her lips, sending spark-like shivers from her neck to her knees. Instinctively, she rose to her toes to meet him. He responded by deepening his claim. With his hand cupping her neck and his tongue parting her lips, all that had come before proved flicker to vivid flame.
If this was a kiss—a true kiss—then she’d grossly mistaken her experience. She had never been kissed like this before.
And she did not want it to stop.
“Katherine.” He caught her bottom lip between his—soft yet firm, like the skin of a sun-kissed grape. “Hellion.” Breath and smolder and crackle. “I want you to be mine.” And heat. So much heat.
“This cannot happen.” She curled her hands into tiny fists and shoved against his chest with all her might.
He barely moved.
“Bromton, please.” She slacked and whimpered. “Please,” she repeated. “Have you no honor?”
Suddenly, she was free. But she remained fixed by the ferocity in his gaze.
“I told you,” she said accusingly, “there could be nothing between us. Why didn’t you listen?”
“Something is already between us,” he said hotly. “Why resist? Just think of the future you could have.”
“As your mistress?” she spat.
“No!” he replied with startled vehemence. “As my wife.”
Her heart pounded against her ribs as if caged and desperate for release. Wife. He’d said wife. Long-dead hopes hovered, ghoulish and mocking.
“We’ve Markham’s blessing,” he continued. “All we need now is yours.”
We. As in the two of them. Together. A simple yes and she’d be betrothed. Again. The ground swayed.
The marquess was vital. He was strong. To have such a man as hers. To have, to hold. To spar, to kiss. To depend on, to love.
How heavenly the image. How damning the need.
Bromton may be honorable—she had no means to tell. He was definitely confident. But kind? If he had any inclination to be so, she hadn’t any evidence.
What kind of man would suggest marriage after such a short acquaintance? Such a man could not possibly believe in love. And a man who did not believe in the existence of love could never understand why she’d given in love the one thing she could not recover. Besides, even if he could understand, any marquess would certainly expect a virgin bride, which she could never be.
“You do not know me,” she said, voice shaking.
“I trust Markham,” he said. “He believed we’d suit. Now that we’ve met, I quite agree.”
Oh, goodness. “I cannot make you leave Southford—Lord knows, I’ve tried.” She ran a trembling finger across her bottom lip. “Another kiss may even weaken me enough to ensure seduction. But…” But then he’d learn the truth. “But I will hate you for it. And you will end up hating me.”
With speed and agility that would have impressed Julia, she ducked under Bromton’s arm. She forced herself to keep moving, though her petticoats tangled in her legs and rushing air forced her unshed tears to sting.
…
Bromton remained rooted as Katherine disappeared. Her absence proved no less devastating than the shock of the cut to his skin. In Katherine, his soul had recognized a counterpart as well as an answer to his need, and her refusal thieved his power. All because he’d given in to an unrestrainable, blazing desire.
What the devil had happened to his control?
Never in his life had he been so consumed with lust. Ferocity had enlivened every sinew as he’d stalked her toward the billiards table, each footfall an ominous signal. Once he had her pinned, her musky scent had betrayed her welcome, and he had very nearly lifted her onto the hard surface and driven into the anticipatory heat awaiting him between her legs.
Ah, the climax he could have had—consummate release answering primal invitation. His cock still stood stiffer than a rutting bull, his body prepared to charge.
Hell. He’d claimed Katherine with that kiss, intent to pluck all her needle-sharp certainties.
For a flash, she had opened, pliant and warm and yielding, her soft breasts crushing against his chest in delicious surrender. She had been more than just a willing woman in his arms. She’d been his woman, and tasting of sweet Eros while she’d been molded to his thighs.
Then, heady triumph had robbed his sense, and he’d demanded all she had. Of course, she had balked.
He let her go. Not just because
his condition inhibited chase. He’d skated razor’s-edge close to force, and force was a line honor would not allow him to cross. A gentleman would never—
He snorted.
As if he could lay claim to the title of gentleman. His real father could be Bromton Castle’s second under butler for all he knew. His jaw tightened. He was no gentleman, and his infamous control was disintegrating—just another dammed lie.
Truth was, any control he once possessed had begun leaching from his limbs the night he’d learned he was a bastard and had been well-nigh gone by the time he’d put Katherine’s likeness into his pocket.
He curled his fingers around her miniature, ashamed of his longing to pull the locket from his pocket and trace the line of her lips.
God, he desired her. Not just because of those cherry-ripe lips, or her ink-stained cheek, or her saucy look of challenge—which would not have attracted him in anyone else—but because she’d voluntarily returned his kiss with a nascent passion that begged to be awakened, a drumbeat, carnal call that would have ended with her in his bed, even if he had no need for an heir.
He fell back against the table’s hard top. An errant ball bit into his shoulder, and he tossed it aside. A dozen candles burned in the chandelier above, each individual flame a reminder of fire’s ability to consume. As he stared at the flickering dance, a hot bit of wax fell onto his cheek. His skin burned under the sweet-scented splatter.
Perhaps the next drop would blind him. No doubt, he deserved to be punished.
The word “wife” had sparked something stunning within Katherine’s eyes.
What had he seen? A particularly feminine tenderness? A bone-deep longing? Whatever the proper description, the spark had made him choke.
Her vision cried out for masculine protection.
He—a bastard, scorned by his mother, his only remaining family—had no hope of protecting tenderness. No matter the number affixed to the title, the Marquess of Bromton’s sole purpose had always been Dynasty with a capital D. Words like “wife” and “family” belonged to a world beneath their notice.
He was not worthy of the title, and he had nothing to give Katherine but the lie of that name. Pursuing Katherine when he knew he was not a gentleman made him a true scoundrel. A brute, just like she’d accused.
Perhaps he should leave Southford.
Scandal in Spades Page 5
