never live with herself. “Stop toying with me,” she demanded with sudden harshness.
With excess force, she flung away the bedcovers and lay flat, staring fixedly up at the mirror. A man who liked to watch himself with a woman deserved contempt. Heavens, he didn’t even try to hide what an unregenerate voluptuary he was.
Although it was difficult to maintain a disapproving silence when the blackguard intent on her deflowering burst into laughter. “Good Lord, Miss Forsythe, you desperately need advice on your wardrobe.”
“It’s only my…my nightdress.” She refused to look at him.
Uneasiness crammed in her throat when he prowled closer. “There’s room for six in there.”
She shot him an annoyed glance. “Did you expect me to wear nothing at all? The night’s too cold, apart from anything else.”
Mr. Merrick subjected her to a thorough and searing inspection. She just knew he pictured her naked and it was her fault for mentioning the possibility. All her life, people had warned that her impulsive tongue would get her into trouble. She was most definitely in trouble. Not just because Mr. Merrick’s manner had within an instant transformed from nonchalance to interest. That fleeting accounting of her body extended mere seconds, yet every inch of her skin burned. Her belly clenched with a painful mixture of shame and reluctant excitement. She met his eyes, then heartily wished she hadn’t. The predatory glint was unmistakable.
“There’s room for maneuver between nakedness and that tent you’re wearing.” His gaze sharpened. “Did you think I’d quail at all that flannel?”
“I took what defensive measures I could,” she muttered, staring upward again. Although truthfully it hadn’t occurred to her to pack anything other than her usual nightwear.
“You underestimate the stimulating power of imagination,” he said drily. “I’m intrigued to discover the treasures beneath that billowing fabric.”
In wordless horror, Sidonie turned her head to stare at him. His shell of carelessness disintegrated and she read raw hunger in his saturnine face. The air vibrated with blazing sexual awareness. In the bristling silence, the sound of rain sheeting against the windows was a jarring intrusion.
“Take it off,” he said softly.
Dear Lord …
The time had come. Of course it had. She’d arrived on Merrick’s doorstep inviting him to tup her. He was hardly likely to turn her away in favor of an early night with an improving book. Reluctantly, her heart thundering panic, she sat. With shaking hands, she fumbled for the nightgown’s hem. Briefly her vision drowned in white flannel, then she was free. With a defiant gesture, she tossed the garment to the floor. She refused to meet Merrick’s gaze just as she refused to betray her humiliation by covering herself with her hands.
Now the true wickedness of this mirror-filled room struck hard as a hammer on brass. Like endless echoes of that clanging blow, everywhere she looked, she saw her naked body. Over and over again. Pale skin. Jutting breasts. Bare legs.
Reflected a hundred times, Merrick loomed above her, tall, dominating, uncompromisingly male. In candlelight, his loose shirt glowed with supernatural whiteness. He hadn’t shifted since she’d removed her nightdress, but the tension in his long body indicated any plea for mercy would go unheeded. His stance conveyed hunting readiness.
The silence stretched until she wanted to scream.
She twisted at the waist to face him. His expression was vivid with what, even in her innocence, she recognized as arousal. In his angular face, his eyes blazed hot silver. He was no longer the languid, sardonically amused man who’d fed her a makeshift supper. This man was captive to appetite.
Dread coiled in her belly. Dread and unwilling curiosity. When she looked at Merrick, unfamiliar heat eddied through her. Since agreeing to take Roberta’s place, she’d told herself her travails would be vile. Vile travails would leave her self-respect, if not her virginity, intact. Those glittering eyes hinted that self-respect would be the first casualty of this desperate bargain. She swallowed to moisten a parched mouth and her hands tangled in the sheets beneath her. She was so taut, she feared she’d snap in two if he touched her.
A muscle jerked in his cheek and his fists clenched at his sides as his leisurely investigation paused at her breasts. Seconds spun into scorching fire. To her humiliation, her nipples tightened. An aggravatingly knowing expression narrowed his eyes and a smug smile curved his lips. He knew he didn’t repulse her, much as she wished he did.
His lingering attention descended to the triangle of feathery brown hair between her legs. It was as if he touched her there. Molten heat flooded her belly, made her gasp with surprise. She squeezed her thighs together and her hand whipped down to shield her sex. “Stop it,” she whispered, the demand thick with tears she refused to shed.
He seemed not to hear. Instead, he stepped nearer and slid his hand behind her neck. She started, then sat unmoving. Through encroaching warmth, she felt the roughness of faint calluses on his fingers. After a charged hesitation, he ran his hand lightly down her neck to the pulse racing in her throat. Every nerve leaped and the molten sensation widened, deepened, left her unbearably agitated. Her instinct was to pull away, drag up the covers, cower.
Pride kept her still.
That searching hand dipped lower, stroked the upper slopes of her breasts. Then glanced across one beaded nipple. Unwelcome pleasure sizzled through her. In the silence, her unsteady breath was audible. Even the storm seemed to pause in anticipation. Her gaze flew to his face, where she found desire, but also something that looked like wonder. Her heart skipped a beat, then crashed painfully against her ribs.
“You’re beautiful,” he said hoarsely. Delicately he circled her nipple then cupped her breast in one large hand.
It was too much. She couldn’t endure these lying overtures, however sweet. They lent a gloss of false tenderness to what was at its basest level a squalid business arrangement. She jerked away and slid down the bed. At last she summoned courage to look into the mirror above. She lay rigid, her body pallid against the sheets. Her face was drawn with fear and determination. Hectic color marked her cheekbones.
“Do it.” She hardly recognized the strident voice. “For God’s sake, don’t torture me. Just…do it.”
For a long time, the man reflected in the mirror didn’t move. Then with a smooth swiftness that made her wanton heart kick into a gallop, he seized the heavy brocade cover.
“Your pardon, Miss Forsythe.” He didn’t sound at all like the shaken, sincere man who told her she was beautiful. With a contemptuous gesture, he tossed the covers over her nakedness. Shock held her speechless as he turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. “I find tonight my taste doesn’t run to martyrs.”
In the cavernous hall, Sidonie Forsythe stood tall and straight in a pool of pale sunshine. She wore her heavy cloak and she clutched her valise at her side.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jonas strode across the flagstones and stopped a few paces short of her. Thank God he was an early riser
