have been a smile, or a sneer. “You have never been in prison, have you, Miss Bergerine? If you had, you would know this is a far cry from those hellholes.”
“Then I am free to go?”
An annoyingly smug expression came to his face. “Absolutely, if you wish.”
No doubt he would like that, for he would then be free of his responsibility. He could claim she had refused his help and therefore he had no more duty toward her.
Perhaps he would even claim that by purchasing those clothes and other things, he had more than sufficiently compensated her, as if any number of gowns or shoes or bonnets could repay her for the terror she’d faced and might face again as long as he had enemies who believed she was his mistress.
Non, he could not abandon her so easily.
“Since you have put my life at risk, I believe I should stay.” Then, determined to wipe that self-satisfied, superior look from his face, she asked, “So what sort of women do you take to your bed?”
Unfortunately, her question didn’t seem to disturb him in the least. His lips curved up in what was definitely a smile, but one that, coupled with his dark hair and brows, made him look like the devil’s minion. “My lovers have all been married ladies whose husbands don’t care if they stray or not.”
“You like old women, then?”
His lascivious smile grew. “Experienced—but never a Frenchwoman.”
“Oh? Why not?” she inquired, trying not to let her irritation get the better of her as she retreated behind one of the sofas.
“I believe their skills in the bedroom are vastly overrated.”
“Believe?” she countered, brushing her hand along the rich brocade, her brows lifting. “You do not actually know?”
“I know enough to be certain that a Frenchwoman cannot be trusted, either in bed or out of it.”
The arrogant English pig! “So now you will insult a whole country?”
“Why so indignant, Miss Bergerine? I merely gave you the information you claimed to seek.”
She must be calm and control her anger. “Your friends who had the party… The woman’s name is Fanny, I think? Is she your lover?”
He started as if somebody had fired a gun at his head. “Where did you get that outrageous idea?”
He was not so smug and arrogant now! “When you were hurt, you called her name, or else it was Annie. Perhaps you’ve had lovers with both names?”
In spite of his obvious shock, Sir Douglas recovered with astonishing speed. “I was unconscious, was I not?”
“Not all the time. Not when you whispered that name and kissed me.”
He couldn’t look more stunned if she’d told him they’d been secretly married. “I did what?”
“You put your arm around me and you whispered ‘ma chérie’ and then you kissed me,” she bluntly informed him. “Or as I suppose an English lover kisses,” she added, as if his performance had been woefully inadequate.
Sir Douglas Drury blushed. Blushed like a schoolboy. Blushed like a child.
She wouldn’t have considered that possible without seeing it for herself.
“I don’t believe it,” he snapped.
“I am not lying. Why would I?”
His hands still behind his back, he strode to the white marble hearth, then whirled around to face her. “How should I know what motives you may possess for wishing to say such a ridiculous thing? Or why you would pick Fanny, whom I most certainly do not desire. She is a friend, and so is her husband. I would never, ever think of coming between them even if I could—which I most certainly could not. They are very much in love. I realize that would be considered extremely gauche in Paris, but it’s true.”
“I am not telling lies.”
He didn’t believe her. She could see that in his eyes, read it in his face.
“What’s the real reason for these questions, Miss Bergerine?” he demanded as he walked toward her like some large black-and-white cat. “Has somebody been telling you about my other reputation? Do you want to know if what they say about me outside the courtroom is true?”
She stood her ground, not retreating no matter how close he came. “I know all that I care to know about you, Sir Douglas.”
“Oh?” His lips curved up in that dangerous, devilish smile. “Perhaps you really want to find out what it’s like to be kissed by Sir Douglas Drury when he’s wide-awake.”
That made her move.
“You pig! Dog! Merde!” she cried, backing away from him.
Not far enough. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him. Before she could stop him—for of course she must—he took her in his arms and kissed her.
This was no tender kiss, like the one they’d shared before. This was hot and fierce, passionate and forceful. Seeking. Seducing. Tempting beyond anything.
His arms went around her and he held her tight against him, his starched shirt against her breasts. Her heart beat like a regiment’s drum, sending the blood coursing through her body, heating her skin, her face, her lips. Arousing her, asking her to surrender to the desire and need surging through her.
A memory came, of the old farmer in the barn, stinking and sweaty, grabbing her and trying to kiss her, his movements fumbling.
This was not the same.
Or was it?
She was just a seamstress and there was only one way it could end if she gave in to the desire Sir Douglas Drury was arousing, the excitement she was feeling, the need.
She put her hands on his broad chest and shoved him away, prepared to tell him she was no loose woman, no harlot, no whore. Until she saw the look on his face…
He was as upset as she. Because he couldn’t believe a woman like her would spurn his advances?
He was wrong. Very wrong! “You pig! Cochon! To take advantage of a poor woman who came to you for help!”
The door suddenly flew open and Lord Bromwell entered the room as if he’d heard her fierce epithets, except that he was smiling with his usual genial friendliness.
“Millstone said I’d find you both in here,” he said. His smile died as he looked from one to the other. “Is something wrong?”
Sir Douglas turned to her, his dark eyes cold and angry as he raised a single brow.
She was not upset with Lord Bromwell. He was truly kind. But if she complained about his friend to him, what would he do?
She could not trust
