mentally. What else could he do? Leave her to be flung out? To starve? Or worse?
His conscience, which had never taken much interest in his dealings with the fair sex, pointed out that what he was about to propose definitely came under the heading of Worse. Worse than death, in fact. The devil it does! I’m not planning to rape her!
He planned to seduce Selina. Gently. And make sure she had everything she could possibly desire. His blood burned at the idea of teaching her a few things he doubted she had the least idea of desiring. How could she after Godfrey? Best to lead up to it gradually.
‘Selina—where will you go?’
Puzzled grey eyes met his. ‘Go? What are you talking about, my lord?’
Patiently he said, ‘When your mistress dismisses you. She is unlikely to give you much of a reference. Do you have somewhere to go?’
‘Somewhere to go?’ He saw her swallow convulsively.
‘Yes. I—’
‘She won’t dismiss me.’
Max, cut off before he’d fairly started, blinked. ‘Pardon me?’
‘She won’t dismiss me.’
Unable to believe that she could mean it, Max pressed on. ‘Selina—don’t be foolish. Have you thought of another position? Another…type of position.’ His cravat was about to strangle him, and the puzzled look she gave him made it worse. Damn! Why was offering a carte blanche suddenly so hellishly difficult?!
‘No. I have no references. But she won’t dismiss me.’
He stifled a crack of laughter. References? He’d never asked for references. All the references he required were flitting around the room before him, tidying away quills, books and a battered globe. Abandoning that tack, he asked gently, ‘Sweetheart, what do you want?’
She turned, eyes wide. ‘Why did you call me that?’
He didn’t know. He’d never called any woman sweetheart. But it felt right. It fitted. ‘What do you want?’ he repeated, sticking to the point. Seeing the puzzled frown deepen, he added, ‘Generally, from…from life.’ Where in Hades had that come from? He knew what women wanted. Pretty, fashionable clothes, jewels, a carriage, masculine attention, all the usu—
‘A family.’
‘A…what?’
She flushed and turned away. ‘You needn’t mock. I know it’s impossible. But you asked.’ The break in her voice rocked his world on its axis.
He said carefully, ‘You want children?’ His mistresses had, one and all, taken whatever precautions could be taken against that catastrophe. A mistress who wanted a child? Deep within something tightened.
She didn’t answer, but started dusting. He frowned. That was something she wouldn’t need to do again.
‘Selina?’
At last she replied. ‘That would be nice too. But what I meant was that it would be…I’d like…to belong. To be part of people’s lives. Not to be always apart.’
Max’s world gave another wobble. ‘You have no family? Not even someone to write to?’
‘There is no one I can call my kin.’ Her voice hardened. ‘No one to give a present to. Which is just as well, since I have nothing to give.’
His heart ached for her, even as he realised the advantage it gave him. No family. No one to be horrified and ashamed at the step she was about to take. No one who would refuse to acknowledge her ever again. He ignored his conscience, which suggested it made her even more vulnerable. She would be his. Safe. He moved towards her, removing the duster from her hand and dropping it.
Awareness leapt within Verity at his nearness, at the brush of long fingers over hers. Then her hand was caught in a gentle, inescapable grip, his thumb stroking sensuously over her roughened skin. Everything within her contracted, shivered in expectation. What on earth was he about? She looked up at him, shocked. A mistake.
‘Nothing?’ His smile deepened and, with it, the flare of something hungry in his eyes. Something warm that melted her, bone deep.
Uncertainly she shook her head. ‘I have nothing,’ she repeated.
‘You have something I want.’
His voice was a deep caress and she realised that he had drawn even closer, that his body brushed against her, that the sharp, tangy odour of his cologne surrounded her, wreathing through the beeswax.
‘Would you consider another sort of position, Selina?’ he asked quietly.
What? Her mind wouldn’t focus, could only absorb the nearness of him, the longing to lean against him. She shook her head to clear it enough to focus on his suggestion of a new position. The Faringdons would not permit it, but she could not tell him that. She dared say nothing that might give him a clue to her identity. ‘Without a reference…I have nothing to live on while I find another place.’ It was true enough, just not all of the truth. A curl fell into her eyes, tickling, and she pushed it behind her ear. It escaped immediately. Impatiently she lifted her hand again. Then froze.
His hand lifted to her face, pushing the errant curl away from her eye. He didn’t bother to tuck it away, but threaded his fingers into her hair in a shockingly intimate gesture. She could feel his thumb circling slowly at her temple, then drifting lower to caress her cheek, her jaw, her throat.
Heat bloomed, and a strange ache invaded her breasts, her belly. A tightening that pulsed to the beat of her heart, suddenly pounding. She could only stare up at him, eyes wide. Her whole body quivered with anticipation, lost in a dreamlike daze. ‘My lord?’ Her breath shortened. ‘I…I don’t understand…’
‘Then I shall have to explain,’ he murmured.
Her breath jerked in. Never before had a man’s voice stabbed into her like that. But then again, never before had a man spoken to her as his arms stole about her and his lips brushed her ear. Pleasure rippled through her even as understanding coiled painfully inside. She knew now what he wanted.
A light touch grazed her throat, drifted along her jaw.
Breathless, she looked up, shivers racing through her, and met a penetrating amber gaze only inches away. She felt caged by his warmth, his strength, by the scent of shaving soap and the spicy masculine smell that underlay it. Her hand rose uncertainly, drawn by the faint shadowed roughness of his jaw, her fingers itched to stroke it, test its texture.
She mustn’t. She understood now what he wanted. She should draw back, but his eyes and touch held her trapped. Gently. Safe, but suddenly vulnerable. To her own desire. Her breath shivered out and she realised that she had been holding it, that her heart’s pounding had nothing to do with terror. And that he was even closer. He leaned forward, his breath a tender caress on her lips. Every precept—of modesty, decorum, every scrap of good sense—screamed a warning. Run!
She lifted her face and felt the warm, gentle touch of his lips. Oh, the joy of being touched and held tenderly. With…affection? Featherlight, his mouth brushed across hers in the briefest of kisses. Delight shot through her.
