The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(42)

He believed in her quest, in her.

“On everything I hold dear, I vow not to tell a soul.” Wanting him to know how much his trust meant, she said earnestly, “Would you like me to take a blood oath? I could get a penknife.”

He stared. Then he burst out laughing, and that sound—rich, a bit rusty from disuse, and utterly masculine—was worth waiting for.

Smiling, he shook his head. “Keep your blood, silly chit.”

“Shall we shake on it, then?” She extended her hand.

Instead of taking it, he curled a finger under her chin. The rasp of his toughened skin made her breath hitch. Beneath her bodice, the tips of her breasts budded, and, farther south, another place grew wet and wanting. Anticipation bloomed in her as he tilted her head up. Would he kiss her again? Her lips parted…

He didn’t bend his head, merely turning her head left and then right. Examining her?

“I believe you,” he said.

“You…do?”

“Your eyes give you away. When you’re lying, the irises get cloudy,” he said intently, “like flecks of verdigris in an insoluble solution. Right now, however, your eyes are clear.”

He’d noticed her eyes? Even if she didn’t quite understand his analogy, she’d take it as a compliment. Her chest melted like wax beneath a flame. His praise even made up for the fact that she apparently had a telltale sign that she needed to work on eliminating.

“Are we settled then?” she said breathlessly.

He stilled. Dropping his hand, he muttered, “Not quite.”

“You can’t go back on your word—”

“I’m not referring to that. I’m referring to what happened in the billiards room.” He clasped his hands behind his back, said gruffly, “I owe you an apology. I took advantage of you—”

“You didn’t.” She couldn’t let him believe that. “I was a full and willing participant.”

“I’m responsible,” he said stubbornly. “I’m the gentleman, and you’re an innocent lady.”

“I’m not innocent! For God’s sake, I grew up in a bawdy house.”

His face was as stony as a statue’s. “Be that as it may, it was wrong of me to—”

“I wanted it.” Despite her flaming cheeks, she said, “I wanted you to kiss me. Asked you to do it.”

“Tessa…” His shield lifted, and she saw the flare of longing in his eyes before they shuttered again. “I cannot do the honorable thing by you.”

Her heart twisted. “Because you don’t want to?”

“Because I…can’t.” He rounded the corner of the table, putting distance between them. He touched the tip of one of her paintbrushes, his gaze on the silken bristles fanning between his finger and thumb. “Believe me, you could do better. You’re beautiful, clever, rich. You could have any man.”

“Even a duke?” The words left her before she could stop them.

“If you wanted the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville, then he would be yours.”

His tone was flat. Yet the telltale muscle ticking in his jaw told her everything she needed to know. The tightness in her chest eased.

“I don’t want him,” she said. “I want you.”

There it was again. That flicker in his eyes: naked longing.

“Tessa, I’m not in a position to offer for you—”

“Then don’t. Working together to protect Grandpapa will give us the chance to spend more time together,” she said on impulse. “To see if we suit, without the pressure of expectations.”

As she thought on it, it was the perfect plan. She didn’t expect Bennett to be as sure of his feelings as she was, not after her regrettably juvenile behavior. Her plan would give her time to make up for all the tricks she’d played on him, to woo him…show him that she would be a worthy mate.

She also needed time to figure out how to manage her grandfather. How to convince the stubborn old goat that Bennett would make a far better husband for her than Ransom.

Bennett scowled at her. “Damnit, Tessa, you deserve expectations.”

“I’d rather have you,” she said truthfully.

He heaved a breath. Raked a hand through his hair. “Christ, what am I to do with you?”

Elation flooded her. His conflicted yet hungry look told her that she’d won. She would have the chance to convince Bennett that she was the woman of his dreams.

“Get to know me?” She edged closer to him. “Work with me to save my family?”

Slowly, as if he couldn’t help himself, he reached out, tracing his thumb along her cheekbone.

“A loyal sprite, aren’t you?” he murmured.

“We Blacks are always loyal.” She shivered with pleasure when he brushed her lower lip before letting his hand fall. “Why do you call me that?”

“Sprite, you mean?”

She nodded.

“Because you’re wee and mischievous…”

She wrinkled her nose. Zounds, that didn’t sound attractive.

“…and also adorable.”

He thinks I’m adorable?

“Adorable? Me?” she breathed.

His mouth quirked again. “When you’re not getting me arrested or embarrassing me with farting contraptions or ruining my boots? Aye.”