“I never imagined that I would have to fight so hard for the woman of my choice.”
“Because you are a wealthy lord?”
“Yes.”
She sighed and kicked idly at a stone. “If you wish to pursue this, you need only speak to my father. He will put me on bread and water and lock me in a dungeon until I accept your proposal.”
His eyes narrowed. “Your father would do that?”
“Probably,” she said with a laugh. Her expression was easy despite what she was suggesting.
“So your father is a harsh man,” he pressed. This was something he needed to know.
“What? Papa? Well, no more than the usual, I suppose. He’s considered merciless in business.”
“How merciless?” In his experience, a man’s business practices could be very ugly indeed. “I need particulars, Miss Powel.”
He took a deep breath. “Very well,” he said. “I will.” It took her a moment to process those words and then another breath before she grabbed his arm in alarm. “Oh no. I misspoke. My father is the gentlest man in the world, and you should definitely not speak to him.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “Afraid of bread and water, are you?”
“Yes! Well, no, not literally. Good God, why are we speaking of my father? You are correct, he is the one who wants the title and would do a great deal to see me wed to you. But after the vows are exchanged, you would not be shackled to him. It would be me in your bed. Day in and day out with a wife who spends most of her time wanting to throttle you.”
He heard her words, but most of them were lost under the fantasy of her in his bed. Of her beneath him night after night and well into the morning, when he could wake her with sweet kisses and bold thrusts. “My lord?” she pressed when he had been silent too long.
He forcibly drew himself out of his reverie. “So what is it that you want in a man, if it isn’t a title or money?”
She glanced at him but quickly looked away. “Shall I name for you the countless well-heeled peers who would be a nightmare as a husband? There are exactly fifty-three.”
“Are those the eligible gentlemen?”
She shuddered. “Goodness, no. The unmarried or widower titles number thirty-seven. Beyond that, there are over a dozen in my acceptable column, and exactly none who wish to court me, a wayward Welsh cit.”
“Lord Rimbury is courting you.”
“Well-heeled, my lord.”
“I am courting you.”
“You are in my nightmare category.” He turned to her. “Why?”
“And here we are full circle. I have explained to you that we do not suit. We fight constantly. You make me want to do violence. Every single one of my good intentions fly to the boughs the moment you enter a room. You make me insane, my lord, and—” He did not allow her to say more. He knew her words were meant to dissuade him, but he heard what she didn’t say. He heard that she lost her careful plans when he was around. That she was mad for him. And if they were wed, she would be this creature who challenged him at every turn to speak better, to think more clearly, and to act in every way better than the lummox he had been. That he often still was.
So he kissed her.
He jerked her into his arms and put his mouth on hers. He wrapped her tight against his chest, knew the glorious feel of her breasts flush against his torso, and when her mouth opened on a gasp of surprise, he thrust his tongue inside.
