The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(43)

Instead of doing the same, the marquess came closer, and Helena’s chest tightened as he slid into the red upholstered King Louis XIV chair closest to hers. As he settled his tall, well-muscled frame into those folds, he easily shrank the space between them and she swallowed hard.

Perched on the edge of her chair, Helena clenched her fingers reflexively around her book. In her plan that required this man’s constant presence for the next three months, she’d not thought through the obvious detail that she’d actually have to speak with him.

The marquess laid his forearms over the sides of his chair and cast his glance about the room, as though seeing it for the first time. He drummed his fingertips on the mahogany arms. “Given the time we intend to spend together, I expect we may as well find common ground with which to speak on.”

Where most ladies would most assuredly be offended by that directness, and the absolute lack of pretense at a courtship, Helena appreciated it. Welcomed it. In fact, that directness was not what she’d expect from a man dripping with charm, and in possession of a glib tongue, and it momentarily unsettled her. “There is hardly a need for such pretense,” she said, proud of that smooth delivery.

He chuckled, and removed his gloves. “Isn’t that the point?” he asked, stuffing them into his jacket.

Yes, well, there was truth there. Though she’d sooner slice off her littlest fingers than admit as much.

Lord Westfield leaned forward in his seat, shrinking the space between them, and freezing her thoughts. “Nor would it be wise to discuss any talk of pretense, given that we nobles know nothing about the word quiet.”

At having her words from last evening turned on her, a wave of heat scorched her face. “Very well,” she conceded, despising that he was right. It was far preferable to see him as a sloppy drunkard who wandered into her rooms and upended her existence.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you read?”

She blinked, and followed his pointed stare to the forgotten book in her hands. “No.” Helena warmed. “Yes.”

The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips. Odd, not even a month prior, those lips had been on her mouth and person, teaching her in ways no man would ever have the right. Her skin tingled. “Well, which is it?”

Helena held her book up, turning the title toward him.

He wrinkled his brow. Did he fail to recognize Argand’s name? Or was it her reading selection he found exception with? “Are you familiar with Argand’s work, my lord?” she asked, opting for the former.

“I am not.” He settled back in his chair, eying her through those splendidly thick golden lashes.

“He is a mathematician,” she said and warmed to a topic that she could actually speak with some familiarity and comfort on. “He is responsible for the geometrical interpretation of complex numbers.”

The marquess flared his eyes wide. “You are a bluestocking.”

She jutted her chin up at a mutinous angle. “Do you disapprove of a woman of knowledge?”

“Why do I expect you already believe you know the answer?” he returned, waggling his eyebrows.

Because she already did know the answer. Men of all stations and classes had but one desire in a woman, and beyond her face and body, those men saw little use or purpose. “Do you know?” he murmured, leaning forward in his chair so their knees brushed. “I believed it was just me whom you’d taken umbrage with.” He lowered his voice to a hushed whisper. “But I am finding you are suspicious of everyone’s motives, Helena.”

She angled her chin up another notch. What did he know of it? “I’ve been given good reason to be suspect,” she said, boldly meeting his gaze.

He held her stare for a long while, and lingered his gaze on her scarred cheek. Helena curled her toes into the soles of her slippers. Long ago she’d ceased to care about the marks on her body. She’d come to accept them, celebrate them as badges of courage and strength as her brothers had called them. How humbling to be proven a liar before this man’s intense scrutiny. She did care about those jagged white marks and what they said about her story. Wordlessly, he sank back in his chair. “I too have been given,” he lifted an eyebrow, “how did you say it? ‘Good reason to be suspect’?”

Questions spilled to the surface, killing her momentary descent into self-pity. He had reasons to be suspicious? She scoffed. “Fortune-hunting ladies?” she put forth.

His gaze darkened, and the scornful words on her lips died a swift death. The dark emotion glinting in his cerulean-blue eyes, she’d seen too many times reflected back in her own mirrors. “I said we’d speak of our interests, Helena, not our pasts.” His warning meant to deter only cast a lure of further questions about the demons he himself battled.

Helena gave her head a slight shake. It hardly mattered what he’d known in his life. Having been born the son of a duke, destined to a title just a step below royalty, he could never have known the pain and suffering faced by people who dwelled in the streets. “I enjoy mathematics,” she conceded, swiftly diverting their discussion to far safer, far more courting-couple, discourse than any mention of his or her pasts.

“Do you ride?”

“No.” First there had been no funds, and then there had never been a need.

“Do you paint?”

“Poorly.”