When she spoke at last, her voice was crisp, and imbued with all of the suspicion she could muster. “What do you get from this arrangement, Your Grace?”
“Your company.” Satisfied she was unlikely to flee, he released her hands. “Tonight you fled to me, Jilly, to protect you. I will do it gladly. All I want in return is your company, an honest opportunity with which to win you.” The words tasted acrid; nothing about his suit was honest or respectable. He was setting her up for a fall that would be a hundred times worse than the one she had suffered with Kirkland.
“I won’t marry you,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. Her jaw was tight and firm, but her eyes darted as if shying instinctively from his. “I told you—I have no intention of marrying.”
“Then you’ve nothing to lose.” He raised his hand to her cheek, and her skin was unbearably soft beneath his fingers. He heard her breath sigh out, saw the brief flicker of her lashes, and knew she was nowhere near as indifferent to him as she wanted to believe. If so simple a touch could evoke a reaction, she was halfway in his hands already.
She had no idea how badly she needed this, just simple human contact, affection. With a few well-placed touches, a few stolen kisses, he could capture her forever. No, damn it—not forever. Just long enough to ruin her and cast her out. Just long enough to make her wretched brother regret he had ever trifled with Gloriana.
Jilly’s eyes closed, and for half a moment her cheek turned into his palm. He doubted she even realized she had done it; she seemed to be steadying herself, collecting the scattered bits of her composure. He had wrecked it with his kiss, and she was still reeling.
“All right,” she said. “I suppose I’m risking nothing.”
Another wayward wave of guilt flayed him, unbidden and unwanted. Good lord, he didn’t want to sympathize with her. He didn’t want to like her, or admire her, or even enjoy her. She was a means to an end. But she didn’t feel like one. She felt soft and delicate, fragile in a way he had never expected. If only she had been as dissipated as Westwood. If only he could have justified her ruination by her actions. If only she had been cruel or calculating, he could have gleefully destroyed her.
If he wasn’t careful, she would destroy him. Already he burned to kiss her again, to tempt her into his arms once more. To slip the sleeves of her gown from her shoulders and bare her to his gaze, to let his lips spend an eternity exploring her silky skin.
If she knew the half of what he was thinking, she would run screaming away from him. With a muffled curse, he shoved himself to his feet and turned to offer her his hand.
She twitched her skirts as she rose, inspecting the hem of her gown for evidence of his shoe.