The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(27)
She licked her lips at that thought. The marquess was the most virile creature she’d ever seen in her life—and he’d kissed her this morning. It’d been nothing more than a deterrent to her pain. Nevertheless, it was still the most delightful kiss she’d ever received in her life. She touched her fingers to her lips recalling the stroke of his tongue there. A glance in his direction caused her breath to catch. His gaze, hot and fiery, had settled on her mouth. His lips tilted upward in a slight grin that made her believe he could read her thoughts.
“And what about your hopes for a match, March?” The low gruffness in his voice soothed, but his words startled her like a lick of Maximus’s rough tongue.
“I have none.” She’d always dreamed of a match, but she’d quickly dashed such hopes when the weight of the estate fell upon her shoulders. She tilted her chin and regarded the marquess. “My only concern is for my family’s welfare. I’ll see my sisters married, and Bennett raised before I think of myself.”
He stood and sauntered over to her. With an easy insouciance, he towered over her. Normally, she was the one who peered down into the faces of other men, but McCalpin stood a good six inches taller. Somehow he made her feel petite, a rare feat since she was tall—only four inches short of six feet.
“No thoughts of a husband or children in your near future? That’s hard to fathom.” He slowly reached out with his hand. The instant his finger touched her skin she gasped. He ignored her outcry and caressed her cheek with the back of his forefinger. “Such softness,” he whispered.
“What are you doing?” Her voice trembled. She wanted to blame it on the throbbing pain, but she knew better. His touch could sooth a cobra. The heat of his hand coaxed her closer. Instead, she forced herself to step back.
“I’m trying to decide what to do with you, March.” The sound of her name on his lips sounded like music, a soft serenade to lower her defenses. “And decide what type of woman stands before me.”
He closed the distance between them and lowered his mouth to her ear. Without touching, the warmth of his breath caused her to shiver in a way completely different from this morning. Indeed, he could easily be her downfall.
“La mia truffatrice,” he whispered. “Mon beau voleur.”
She didn’t understand the Italian, but there was no mistaking his French. Beautiful thief. “I didn’t steal,” she protested.
“Until you turn twenty-five, the money belongs to the trust.” He chuckled at her outrage. “When I first saw your forged requests for funds, I was completely amazed. The M’s were undeniably mine.” He tut-tutted as if she were a contrary child who needed discipline. “How do you think I should punish you?”
“It’s my money,” she hissed.
“The kitten has claws.” His pupils had dilated to a point where only a sliver of blue was visible. He tilted his head and regarded her. A gentle smile broke across his handsome face. “You’d like my punishment. It’d be similar to the kiss I bestowed upon your sweet lips earlier to dissuade you of thinking of your stitches. But I’d take more from you than just a gentle press of lips against lips.”
“I’m not a kitten.” She inhaled deeply. “Nor am I yours to play with.”
He laughed, and the rich sound filled the study. “Indeed. Neither is my signature. Your little act must cease. I’ve instructed my solicitor to allow your one-thousand-pound request and have it deposited into your account. Do whatever you want with it. I’ll start putting the estate back into profitable working order. However, I want a full accounting on what you’ve spent so far. Understood?”
She had no choice but to nod in agreement. Today, she had teetered as if on a precipice with no one to catch her. Why should now be any different? Life always dealt her a hand where she struggled daily while not having a clue about the future. Her pulse galloped at the realization he knew everything she’d done. She concentrated on the exotic wood crown molding that surrounded the study’s ceiling. Every foot of wood contained a carved pattern of the Parthenon. Normally when she studied the columns, she found a familiar comfort, but not tonight.
“I don’t want to see any more documents with my forged signature come across my desk.” His voice softened. “I’ll not be pleased.”
She pursed her lips. This time she didn’t nod her acquiescence.
“How’s your pain?” he asked in a quiet voice that rumbled with some emotion she couldn’t identify.
“Worse than when I came in here.”
“Take this and drink half of it tonight.” He extended the flask in an obvious gesture that she should accept. “Tomorrow, drink the other half before bed. The day after you shouldn’t need it. If there’s any sign of infection, send word to me. We’ll have a doctor attend you.”
The hum of his voice required she respond. With a brisk nod, she accepted the brandy.
His gaze caught hers. “Thank you for dinner. Your family was gracious to welcome me.”
“It was our pleasure,” she whispered. Her heart still hadn’t settled after the revelation that he was fully aware that she’d tried to embezzle the astronomical amount of a thousand pounds from her own trust fund and forged his name.
He nodded and turned toward the door. He faced her once again with his brow crinkled in neat worry lines. “March, things will change for the better. You’ll not have to carry this burden alone for much longer, I promise.”