“That is not what I said no to, and what’s more, you know this, Miss Pace.”
He caught the quick smile before she projected puzzlement once more. He almost sighed from the inevitability of their mutual destruction as it pulled nearer, inescapable.
“You have caught me out, Mr. Merrick. How—”
“—intelligent of me.”
“—intelligent of you . . .” She blinked again, and for once
she
looked disgruntled. “Well. Yes.”
He flipped his page. “What are you really working on, Miss Pace?”
“I am really working on the legislation. I have been since we returned, and you disappeared without a word.”
If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn there was a touch of censure there.
“I don’t need to share my schedule with you,” he said stiffly.
“No, but it would be nice not to worry about you lying in a ditch somewhere.”
She busied herself with her papers, and his eyes narrowed. She was using his tactic. He refused to examine what it meant for him in light of her words.
Finally, she looked back up. “Did you catch the men behind the attack on our carriage?”
“All but one.”
Head tilt. “What did you do to them?”
He gave her a pointed look without answering.
“Were you hurt?”
“No.”
“That is good. I worried.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t.
She leaned over suddenly and thumped a pile of messily arranged papers on his orderly and previously pristine desk. “It is quite a weighty thing. The legislation.” As if the second part was a true qualifier, but not exactly the core of the statement. That the
worrying
had been a weighty thing.
“Yes, and a bit outside of your usual concerns, no?”
“Justice is one of my concerns.”
Only fools felt guilt. The twinge in his stomach must be from the lack of an afternoon meal. Something about the plate at the inn hadn’t looked right. For the last two weeks, he had only been eating things he had made himself or which had come from her hands.
Except for that meal with the farming family. She had touched him so often during the meal that he hadn’t realized he’d eaten half a chicken until after the plates had been cleared.
“Justice would be served by our sentencing,” he said, keeping the conversation where it should be. “Unfortunately, I care little about others’ perceptions of justice.”
Head tilt. “Just your own?”
He didn’t respond.
“I find you to be quite likable.”
There was that tightening in his chest again. Like steel bands constricting. He had watched a man clutch his chest once, suddenly, before falling over dead on the street. The expression on that man’s face—the fingers digging into his sternum to stop the pain—this must be how that man had felt.
“You are quite an amusing man usually. Always yelling things”—she raised her elbows up as far as her dress allowed with her fingers spread and her limbs vibrating—“like ‘
Leave
’ and ‘
I want you gone
.’ ” Her voice had taken on a theatrical, low timbre.
She put her elbow back on the table, her chin resting back on her hand. “It’s charming as long as one doesn’t take you seriously.”
“Sane people take me seriously.”
“I’m sane, and I do not.”
“You are the least sane person I’ve had the misfortune to meet.”
The corners of her eyes pinched a little, just for the barest second, then cleared. “Well, there are plenty more people for you to meet, Mr. Merrick, so do not give up hope yet.” But the tone of her voice was far too cheerful.
He watched her for a moment. Watched as her face cleared of anything remotely hurt or upset. “Do you object to being called insane or my saying that I had the misfortune of meeting you?”
“Neither, of course.”
He drummed his finger on the desk, irritated and, God, how did people live feeling
guilty
about things?
“You are just fine as you are,” he said gruffly.
Her expression froze for a moment, then bloomed into a smile that would slay demons.
He quickly shut down all reaction to it. She was a chess piece, and once a piece outlived its usefulness, it was discarded. That was how the game was played.
But it had always been that smile. Not her position as Henry Wilcox’s possible wife nor the possibility that he could take his enemies down by manipulating her family. Those hadn’t been the things that had driven him when it came to his feelings for her.
It had been that smile. Through the shadows of the theater that first night. When their eyes had met. She had smiled. Simply. Warmly. Looking directly at him, unaware that she should be afraid.
She was still unaware she should be afraid.
He was still affected every time she smiled.
“You are a true gentleman, Mr. Merrick.”
“I’m not a gentleman. I don’t know why you think such absurd things,” he said tightly.
“Mmmm.” She cocked her head at him. “If you insist.” She turned back to her remaining papers.
She confused the hell out of him.
She looked up and smiled at whatever she saw on his face. “You scare the boots off everyone, yet no one sees you for the guardian you are. Like a gargoyle—a stone-faced, snarling guard over those under your watch.” She covered her mouth for a moment, and he was absurdly sure she was muffling a chuckle. “A guardian of virtue.”
“What are you babbling about?” he demanded.
She regarded him, one edge of her mouth turned up, and there was something behind her eyes for a moment before they were innocent once more. “My mother’s worry for my virtue increases every day we are here. Wailing on about what might happen. Not realizing that my virtue is perfectly secure with you near. It would only take a moment around you to convince her that you are like one of those medieval . . .” She waved her hands around the area between her thighs and waist. He did his best not to follow the movements. “Those devices that keep a lady’s virtue intact.”
“A chastity belt?” he said tightly.
“Yes, exactly. What a horrible idea. I can’t imagine a draft would be pleasant combined with all of that metal.” She paused. “Not that
you
are horrible. I find your primness quite charming actually. It allows me untold freedom.”
The entire conversation was horrifying. “How do you even know what a chastity belt is?”
“I am well-read.”
“And in what book did you learn about them?”
She waved a hand. “I’ve read so many it is hard to remember titles.”
He would bet his entire fortune that she knew the name of the book. He knew exactly where she might have found such a book. He was going to kill Roman.
“Don’t touch those shelves,” he hissed.
“I don’t know of what you speak. Do you know of a place where I might find a good selection of libidinous texts?” She put her chin on her hand, tilting her cheek into it.
“Miss Pace?”
“Yes?”
He didn’t respond because he didn’t know
what
to say, really.
She reached far across their desks and patted his hand. “You are a lovely man, Mr. Merrick. No need for worry. As I said, your prudishness makes it easy for me to be free.” There was something wistful to her expression again. “And it has been a long while since I was allowed the unrestrained opportunity to act as I wished. Even if I am silly.”
He turned his hand so that hers was caught in his, palm to palm, his thumb pressing the back of her hand and holding it in place. She couldn’t mask her sudden intake of breath.
“Does this feel silly, Miss Pace?”
“No.”
His thumb rubbed the back of her hand, the smooth skin there, as he leaned toward her a measure. “What about now?”
“No,” she whispered. “Not silly.”
The whisper sent a fierce, almost painful, rush down his body and straight to his groin. “Does it feel safe and secure?” he whispered back.
“How—what do you mean?”
“Your virtue?” He pulled his forefinger along her exposed wrist. “Does it feel in danger now?”
“N-no.” But it came out as more of a question.
“Do you not know the tale of the wolf, Miss Pace?”
“No.” Her voice was breathy, her fingers clinging to his, not trying to break free.
“And the lamb who poked and poked and poked?”
He drew her hand toward him, pulling so she was half-lying across the desks, only her elbows keeping her upright. “I don’t believe I have,” she answered. The brown of her eyes was slowly being swallowed by black, the center point spreading outward.
“The wolf ate the lamb.” He leaned forward so his lips were close to hers, hot. “Because the lamb forgot that
she
was the prey.”
She didn’t answer for a moment, cheeks flushed, glassy eyes on his lips. Then her eyes rose to his, meeting them, unafraid as always, with a look that made his hand tighten around hers—innocence mixed with desire. “Or perhaps the lamb didn’t forget at all, Mr. Merrick.”
He
wanted
her. More than he’d ever wanted anything else.
It would be so easy. Closing the distance. Confusing and conflicting all of the very real and necessary barriers that stood between them. That she had tried her damnedest to break down. He wasn’t a fool. And part of him—most of him—wanted to give into it. To surrender everything to her.
But there were barriers that she didn’t realize existed. And that was where the true danger resided.
Her fingers were warm and soft in his. So easy to tug her forward more. So he did. Her cheek was warm against his, her breathing heavy and audible so near his ear. He let his lips taste her skin the way she had tasted him so many evenings, let himself have this moment. He grazed her cheek, until their lips met, so briefly, skimming across, her breath catching and pulling at his. But with great effort, he kept his lips going, grazing her other cheek, touching her other ear.
So easy to pull her onto his desk. Spread her and taste her fully and do all manner of nonvirtuous things to her. Consume her until she was screaming and pleading.
Damned.
He was damned. In flesh, in spirit, and through the consequences of past actions. He couldn’t have her. Couldn’t let her break down those last walls and discover the secrets and horrors beneath.
He could, however, turn the tables on her. For all of the madness she’d been driving him to.
“Good evening, Miss Pace.” He whispered the echo of her words to him each night and felt her start in response.
And now he should let her go.
Right
now. Not pull his hand up her arm, slowly, assuring himself that she was real. Listening to the hitch in her breath become ragged gasping. Not pulling that hand up across the skin of her neck and into the nape of her hair. Not tilting her head back so that he could see her eyes, wide and dilated and
wanting
.
Just a taste.
He could have a taste. He could have anything he wanted. Those eyes said he could. Those parted lips invited him in.
Just a taste.
Surely a taste would not spell his doom?
“Are you going to devour me?” she asked, breathless, spread forward over the desk, arching up to him.
“Do you want me to?”
Just a taste.
“Yes.”
One small taste. He willed his fingers to let go of her, but his hands hooked under her elbows and pulled her up and all the way across the desks, papers scattering everywhere, irreparably mixing together, confused.
He pulled her so that she was kneeling in front of him, rocking back on her heels, dress spreading around her. And attached his lips to her neck. Slowly pulling at her beating pulse, trying to lengthen every exquisite taste. Needing something in this woman as he’d never needed in another.
Damned.
P
hoebe arched back as his mouth moved over her skin. Yes, this is what she had wanted. Ever since the farmhouse. Ever since the night at the inn. Ever since she had first kissed him on the cheek. Ever since she had met him and he had looked at her with such fire. Ever since . . . forever.
She couldn’t seem to recall a past that didn’t include the want of him.
Want
that increased with the motions of his right hand. Fingers so slowly traveling over her skin. Hooking into the fabric at the back of her neck, unbuttoning her dress. Pulling it away.
Desire
that stretched through the motions of his mouth. Lips traveling over her neck, down her throat. Over her chemise and breasts.
Need
that multiplied under the motions of his left hand. Fingers drifting along her knee, under her dress, over her thigh, up, up, up. Curling into her in a way that she hadn’t even dreamed of.