The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(26)

The air shifted subtly between them. She turned to him. “You’ve given up on revenge, then.”

“No, Miss Marshall.” His voice was low and warm, so warm she could have sunk into it, let it enfold her. “I told you that I didn’t give a damn about you.”

Her breath stopped in her lungs. He was watching her ever so intently, so intently that she shut her eyes, unable to meet his gaze. “Oh?”

“That has changed. I find myself giving a damn. It’s an unfamiliar experience, to say the least.”

Free let her breath cycle in and out, in and out. But it was the sound of his breathing that she listened for, as if his inhalations might provide some clue to untangle what he meant.

She kept her eyes shut. “Well, Mr. Clark. You have not given me enough information to proceed. Precisely what sort of a damn are we talking about here? Is it a little damn? A big damn? Do you give more than one damn, or are we talking of damnation in the singular?”

She could hear his shoes scuff against the ground, taking him closer. Closer to her. She couldn’t see him, and that made the moment all the more intimate. She could imagine the look in his eyes, faintly approving.

“Free.” His voice dropped low, so low that she could almost feel the rumble of it in her chest. And then she felt it—not his hand, but a waft of air brushing her cheek, and then the absence of any draft. The warmth of him heating the space next to her.

“This,” he said, “is about the shape of it.”

She couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward, letting his hand brush against her jaw. His finger ran along her chin; his thumb brushed against her lips. Her eyes fluttered open.

She’d imagined him intent on her, watching her ever so closely. But she hadn’t expected that look in his eyes, hadn’t expected him to exhale when she finally looked at him. She hadn’t expected him to move closer still, as if he’d spent long years alone and only she could fill that hollowness inside him.

He leaned forward. His lips were close to hers, so close that she might have stretched up the barest inch and kissed him. But she wasn’t going to close that gap. She willed it into existence, demanded that it stay there. And he didn’t move any nearer.

“How deceptive,” he remarked.

It was such an odd thing to say; she blinked and looked up at him.

“It’s some kind of illusion,” he said. “Or a painter’s trick. Until this moment, I had the distinct impression that you were a lady of ordinary dimensions.” His fingers stroked her cheek with a gentle brush. “But now you’re close and you’re not moving, and I can see the truth. You’re tiny.”

“I am small,” she said, “but mighty.”

His touch was warm on her jaw. “Have you ever watched ants? They scurry about carrying crumbs three times their size. You’ve no need to remind me of your strength. It’s great big fellows like me who crack under the strain.”

He was great. And big. He was touching her as if she were some delicate thing.

“Tell me, Miss Marshall,” he said. “As unconventional as you are… Hypothetically speaking, have you ever considered taking a lover?”

As he spoke his fingers slid down her neck, resting briefly against her pulse. He must feel it hammering away, must know the effect he was having on her.

“As we are speaking hypothetically,” she told him, “I suppose that a woman can only break so many rules. I’ve chosen the ones that I shatter very, very carefully.”

“Ah,” he said. But he didn’t move away.

“I tell myself all those things,” she said, “but I’m a suffragette, not a statue. I have the same desires as any person. I want to touch and be touched, hold and be held. So yes, Mr. Clark. I have, hypothetically, thought of taking lovers.”

His eyes darkened. But perhaps he could tell that there was more to come.

“But we are speaking hypothetically. I don’t think I would do it in truth unless one thing were true.”

“Yes?”

“I would have to trust the man.”

His fingers came to a standstill on her throat. His eyes sought hers. For a long, fraught moment, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t protest. He didn’t demand an explanation. He didn’t erupt in anger.

Instead, ever so slowly, his mouth tilted up in a sardonic smile. “Well.” He spoke quietly. “That rather rules me out.”

She hadn’t known she was holding her breath until she let it out. “Yes. It does.”

“Just as well,” he returned. “I wouldn’t like you half so much if you let yourself spin breathless fantasies about me.”

Oh, she’d spun breathless fantasies. She was spinning one now, damning herself for having good sense when she could be getting a proper kiss instead. Later, she’d think back on this moment and imagine a thousand different endings.

For now, she swallowed back all that ill-advised want. She smiled at him—teasingly, she hoped, with no limpid doe-eyed desire—and shrugged a shoulder. “Oh, look at that. I am coming up in the world. I have graduated from mild indifference to a moderate preference.”

But she couldn’t trust even that assertion on his part. He was charming, but he was a terrible scoundrel. And if he intended to seduce her… Well, he was doing a bang-up job of it. How she wished her foolish reason didn’t assert itself over her desire. She suspected he was the kind of bounder who could make her feel very, very good before he casually destroyed her life.