A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(61)

When Halford’s presumptuous touch trailed downward, teasing toward her décolletage, she bristled—and smacked his hand away.

Then she bared her teeth and gave a little growl. Violence was a universal language, too.

“Watch yourself, Halford.” Colin tensed. No good humor in his voice now, only threat. “This one’s not to be trifled with. A friend of my cousin’s in the War Office asked me to keep on eye on her. There are rumors, suspicions. The Crown’s intelligence suggests she’s either a princess in exile or a cold-blooded assassin.”

The duke gave a bark of laugher. “Judging by that bruise on your jaw, my wager’s on the latter. But speaking of wagers, come along. Everyone’s in the card room.”

The duke turned on his heel—his bare heel, for he seemed to be wearing nothing beneath the banyan—and padded down a long corridor.

Colin and Minerva lagged several steps behind.

“Now I’m a cold-blooded assassin?” she hissed. “Where do you come up with these things?”

He shushed her, purposely slowing his paces so that they’d drop even farther behind. “It’s called improvisation, remember? I had to offer some explanation for your behavior.”

Ahead of them, the duke called out to a friend as he turned a corner.

Once Halford was out of sight, Minerva stopped dead in the corridor, wrenching out of Colin’s embrace. She didn’t understand how he could do this to her—be so protective and self-sacrificing one moment, and then so patronizing the next.

“I do not deserve this,” she whispered. “Just because I made the mistake of accepting your . . . attentions . . . last night, that does not make me a whore. How dare you lump me in with those debased women?”

“Believe me, those women would not call themselves debased. And what makes you think they’re whores? Perhaps they’re ladies, every bit as pedigreed and well-bred as you, who understand what you don’t. How to enjoy themselves. How to have a good time.”

“What?” She jabbed a finger in her own chest. “I understand how to enjoy myself. I understand how to have a good time.”

He cocked his head and drawled, “Oh, of course you do.”

“How dare you.” Now she jabbed the same finger in his chest. “How dare you bring me to this place and subject me to that leering, grabby duke.”

He grasped her wrist and lowered his voice. “How dare I, indeed.”

She didn’t have to see his expression to know he was angry. The fury radiated from him.

“How dare I risk my life to save yours, when you all but threw yourself to the highwayman. How dare I bring you to a comfortable house, where we can find food and a night’s shelter after a day of rambling woods and fields. How dare I.”

His hands slid up her shoulders and stopped halfway between her head and neck. As though he were trying to decide whether to kiss her or throttle her.

She would put up a fight, either way.

“We’re going to go into that card room now. We will eat, drink, and play their game. As soon as we’re able, we’ll slip upstairs and have a good night’s sleep. I swear to you, you’ll leave this house tomorrow morning with both your virtue and that disapproving personality intact—tucked safe inside your little shell—so long as you do two things.” He gave her head a little shake. “Stay close to me and play your part.”

“The part of a cold-blooded assassin? I could get inspired for that.”

“The part of my lover.” His fingers slid up and through her hair, dragging exquisite sensation over her scalp. “Search deep inside this clever mind, and try to see if you can’t dredge up the imagination to pretend. To convince those around us that you find something in me to admire. That against all odds, you actually prefer my company to a clod of dirt.”

The ragged hurt in his voice took her by surprise. So here was the reason for his changing moods and erratic behavior. Somehow, in attempting to guard her own fragile emotions, she’d managed to make him feel lower than dirt.

“Colin . . .” She stroked his lapel. “I can convince them I like you. That won’t require imagination.”

This thumb traced her jaw, and his voice went husky. “Won’t it?”

“But no one will believe we’re lovers. You heard those women laugh. You said it yourself, back in Spindle Cove. No one will believe you want me.”

With a groan, he slid his hands down her back. Cupping her backside in two hands, he lifted her and pressed her into the nearest alcove. The possession in his manner thrilled her, and so did the press of his hard, muscled body against hers.

He pressed a kiss to her ear. “What if I said I was an idiot that night?”

“Then I would agree.”

“What if I told you everything’s changed?” He kissed her neck. “That in the past four-and-twenty hours I’ve wanted to murder three different men just for daring to touch you—one of them a duke. That I am desperate with longing, consumed with wanting you. As I’ve wanted no other woman in all my debauched, misspent life.”

His tongue traced her pulse, and her breath caught. “Then I would doubt you,” she breathed.

Why?”

“Because . . .” Because I doubt myself. “Because I know how easily you lie.”