Angel in Scarlet (Bound and Determined #4)(65)

Although she probably should talk with him. She did need to understand where things stood between them—or to make sure he understood. She might have promised to be willing, but his behavior at the end of their last encounter had…Well, she didn’t have exact words, but she would not be treated in such a fashion.

She glanced down the table just as Colton threw his head back in laughter, his eyes crinkling deliciously.

No.

“I do understand about your father, Mr. Wilkes,” she said. “My mother can be quite the same. She doesn’t understand why I should do anything that is not involved in finding a husband.”

It was Mr. Wilkes’s turn to blink at her. “Well, isn’t that what you want? To find a husband?”

Deep breath in. She would not allow her head to actually explode at the dinner table.

—

Colton leaned against the wall, one foot crossed over the other, and watched her dance. She moved like a feather in the wind, light, drifting. The candlelight shimmered on her curls as they waved with her movement.

He felt the urge to stride out onto the dance floor, to take her in his arms, to send away the boy who was spinning her about. He did not move.

She looked so happy and carefree, but when she stopped he’d seen the look of worry that crossed her features. All was not right in her world. It brought him back to that night months ago, the night that he’d told her bluntly that he was not interested in her.

She’d been devastated. He’d hoped never to put that look on a woman’s face. Ironically, it was the reason he’d been so blunt to begin with, the reason he’d told her as soon as his interest lagged.

Could he risk doing that again? Doing worse?

It was impossible to imagine causing that bright light harm.

What would happen if Thorton talked? Even if Colton denied it, even if Angela denied it, would they be believed? And even if they were, did it matter? Gossip spread faster than wildfire, and what man would want a wife who’d done what Angela had? Well, most of them—they just wouldn’t want one who’d done it with someone else.

So what did he owe her? She’d been clear that she was willing to assume all the risk, but…

No, it was clear what he had to do.

—

“We must talk.”

Angela glanced over her shoulder and met Colton’s dark gaze. “Must we?” She worked to sound nonchalant.

“You know that we must.”

“I was enjoying the dancing.”

“Were you?”

Not really. But she was not about to admit to that. “What woman would not? The music is fast and light, the gentlemen quick on their feet. My toes have not suffered damage once this evening.” She looked away from him and back across the floor. As was the nature of a house party, the floor was not crowded, although it was clear all the local gentry had been invited to fill out the numbers.

“We need to talk,” he repeated.

“You did not feel the need to talk yesterday.” She refused to sound bitter.

“Yesterday I was overcome by what had happened.”

“I do not believe that you became overcome.”

“Does it matter? I was not prepared to talk then, but now I am.”

And did it matter whether she was prepared? “I do not find it convenient at this moment.”

He did not seem to hear her words. “Meet me in the garden in a few minutes.”

“In the garden, really?”

“Yes.” His voice was cool and yet commanding.

“And if I don’t?”

“Do not be the child; I know you are not. I will see you there.” He strode off across the floor.

Lord Peter approached and asked her to partner him for the country dance that was just beginning. She nodded her acceptance, but only long habit kept her feet moving in the proper patterns. Her mind was already in the garden, wondering what Colton wanted. A repeat performance? She certainly would not put it past him. And what did she want? Her body tensed at the thought of what he might do, of what he might demand of her.

No. She would tell him they were done, that he was free of her game.

Her feet sped through the motions of the dance. Her smile remained fixed. She probably even answered Lord Peter’s polite questions when the dance brought them close.

When the music ended, she refused Lord Peter’s offer to fetch her refreshment and excused herself to get a cooling breath of air.

And it would be cooling. She drew her shawl tight about her shoulders and headed to the doors to the veranda and then down the steps onto the lawn. She should have made Colton specify which garden. In a London house there was not much choice; here there were many. The rose garden? That was the most obvious. The maze? She did hope not. The thought of wandering lost was not an attractive one, and her mother would not take kindly to too long an absence. The herb garden? That was possible. The pungent smell of rosemary and thyme still lingered. The kitchen garden? That did not seem likely.

She followed a gravel path down to a small fountain where water splashed. A stand of flowers stood between the stone benches, and she sat, waiting—steeling herself for the words she must say.

He could find her. For once she would not be the one to dance to his tune.

A cold wind caused the flowers to dance and sway, and she drew the shawl even tighter. If he were not here soon, she would go in and speak to him on the morrow. She would not risk more for a game that was done. She had been a fool to think she was capable of such play.