Henri narrowed her gaze. “And what condition would that be?”

“You’d have to wait and see,” he said. He did not crack a smile, but she could tell he was pleased with himself.

He had her and he knew it. It was a gamble. A bet. One in which she did not know the full extent of the wager and ought therefore to walk away. As much as she might wish to, she could not. Her curiosity would not let her. Her curiosity now extended to whatever condition he might put forth.

“What do you say?” he asked.

She pursed her lips, struggling with the answer, though she knew it was inevitable. Alistair did not speak. His gaze was suddenly inscrutable and for quite possibly the first time in her life, Henri was nervous.

Was this excitement that had her belly fluttering and her breath quickening? She hadn’t been lying before. She lived to play games. It was how she saw the world—a series of chess moves, a constant battle between winners and losers. She was playing that game now, yes, of course she was. But now she was also playing with fire. She cast a quick glance over at her still sleeping brother and then leapt into the flames before she could hesitate any further. “Your brother is not dead.”

He barely reacted. “Is he not?” Lounging against the seat, he might as well have been back at that blasted, boring musicale.

“No,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “And what is more, your brother is a pirate.”

He blinked, but that was all. She leaned over, her own curiosity getting the best of her. For a moment, she forgot that she was manipulating and toying with a powerful, titled, wealthy gentleman who could ruin her entire life. “But what I’d love to know is your part in his piracy.”

“Would you now?” he asked politely.

“We had a deal,” she reminded him.

He grinned. “You still have not heard my condition.”

She shrugged, feigning a casualness she did not feel. “The worst you could do is ruin me, my lord.”

His lips twitched upward. “You haven’t finished sharing all you know.”

She blinked. Either he was a quick study in body language or he knew her better than she thought. Better than she would have liked, in truth. “That’s all I’m willing to share at this point. At least, until I know the conditions of which you speak.”

He arched a brow. “Touché,” he murmured. He leaned back and met her gaze evenly. “You will be my wife.”

She stared at him with wide eyes, certain that her ears were playing tricks on her. “Pardon?”

He lifted one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “I do not reveal my secrets to just anyone, you know.”

Her mouth went dry, her belly twisting into knots as she realized he was not speaking in jest. “You—you are serious.” She hated how breathless she sounded. Almost like a silly young debutante, dreaming of nothing more out of life than a good marriage and a family to care for. Nonsense. That had never been her dream, and it never would. Not only that, but it was a ridiculous threat. He could not force her into marriage.

His gaze grew dark, as though he could read her thoughts. “I will not force you, of course. But a deal is a deal.”

She blinked, her brain racing. “But you have not told me anything yet.”

His lips twitched with a small smile. “Let’s just say I do not wish to have a wife who wishes me dead. There is time enough yet for you to back out now.”

She narrowed her eyes, anger rising up and doing away with her shock. “Of all the mean, vindictive tricks.”

He arched his brows in question and she folded her arms across her chest. “Now I am certainly glad I did not tell you all I know.” She shook her head, trying to regain some of her typical cool charm. She had a feeling she failed spectacularly, judging by his barely-concealed amusement.

Henri hated the anger boiling up inside of her. She hated how it gnawed at her, and how it made her doubt her sanity. It wasn’t as though she really wanted a proposal, after all, but how he dangled marriage in front of her like it was some sort of toy. It rankled. She sniffed, trying to calm her wounded pride. And heart. No, not her heart. This man could never touch her heart.

He leaned over until his lips grazed hers, teasing and tempting, but not giving her the crushing satisfaction she longed for. Her brother snorted and shifted as Alistair pulled back with a dangerous glint in his eyes. He cast a sidelong look at Rodrick. “Wonderful protection you’ve got there.”

She straightened. “And I presume you think you would do better if I were your wife?”

He arched a brow. “I know I would.”

She let out a huff of air, not wanting to acknowledge the thrill that raced through her at his possessive tone. “I suppose your idea of keeping a wife safe would mean keeping her locked up at home.”

His look of offense was tempered with amusement. “I would never keep my wife locked up, not unless she asked me to.” He gave her a devilish wink that made her blush. She hoped he could not see her pinked cheeks in the dark. Bloody man, he could make her blush like a simpleton or some young innocent.

While technically she might be an innocent, she was not ignorant. She knew what went on between men and women, and she knew better than most their secret proclivities. It was such knowledge about a certain duke that had helped her and Rodrick to a small fortune two years’ prior.

Alistair surprised her by stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. His voice lowered and his eyes grew unbearably tender. “Why, Henri, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

She stiffened. “You haven’t.” She lied. He had.

His lips twitched up slightly. “I suppose that when you and I converse it is easy to forget that you’re a lady.”

She jerked back a bit, stupidly and inexplicably hurt by those words. He did not let her move back far, his hand cupping the back of her head as he forced her gaze to meet his. “Do not misunderstand, Henri. I could never forget that you are a woman.”

The way he said it, with that rumbling growl, the way he eyed her with blatant desire—it stole her breath. His lips twitched with barely concealed amusement. “I merely meant that you are not like any lady I have ever met, and I dare say I’ll never again meet another lady like you.”

The hurt feeling faded away so quickly it left her breathless. That almost sounded like a compliment. Oh bloody hell, if her ridiculous cheeks blushed again she would never forgive herself.

“Tell me what else you know,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

That was enough to bring her back to the moment. She scowled at him. “Why? So I might be your wife? I hardly think that’s an incentive. More like a threat.”

Most men would be offended, but not this one. He grinned at her. “Come now, I think we could form a fine partnership.”

She did too. But because she thought that, even if it was in the deepest recesses of her silly mind, she felt the need to rebel.

“It sounds like hell on earth,” she said, not trying to hide her disdain.

Once again, she’d failed to dent his pride. If anything, he seemed to take an even greater interest in her response. She could feel his gaze on her face, studying her every feature, trying to read something in her eyes. She jerked her head away, forcing him to drop the hand which had been lightly cradling the back of her head.

“Tell me all you know,” he said again, his tone frighteningly gentle.

She swallowed thickly. What could it hurt? In return, she’d get the truth from him. It was not as though he could force her into marriage. This was a civilized age, after all. The worst he could do was ruin her, and he wouldn’t. She risked a glance in his direction. At least, she guessed he would not. Was she willing to bet her future on that?

If there was one thing she’d learned about this man, it was there was more to him than met the eye. She studied him now in the dim lighting. Even in those dingy clothes and with mussed hair, he still looked the part of an imperious gentleman. It was in the slope of his nose, in the way his eyes pierced, and how his brow seemed to be permanently set in a glower. He was a force to be reckoned with—that was what his demeanor said.

But his voice, the look in his eyes, the way he kissed her, that all spoke of another side of him entirely. It was a glimpse of the man beneath, the one she’d been getting to know in the dark shadows of ballroom balconies and in the dim lighting of her carriage. She shifted to face him. She had nothing to fear, and her curiosity demanded that she see this through.

“I’ll tell you what I know, but I will not marry you.”

He met her gaze evenly, but he showed no sign of talking anytime soon. Instead he reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a flask. He held it out to her and she studied it with annoyance. “Are you trying to distract me or kill me?”

He let out a short laugh that shocked her with its sincerity. “It is not poison…at least not the lethal kind, if that is what you mean.”

She met his gaze and hated that his smile made her want to grin in return. It also made her want to close the distance between them and kiss him. Soundly. It made her want to make him laugh again. It made her…oh drat, it made her want to do all kinds of things she should not even be considering, not if she valued her current life of independence and means.

When she did not reach for the flask he took a large swig of his own. He met her gaze, a smile still hovering over his lips. “It’s getting cold out there, and this will warm you better than a blanket, I guarantee it.” He leaned in a bit and lowered his voice. “Besides, if I’m going to bare my soul to a beautiful little hellion, I might need some fortification.”

She shivered, and she wasn’t sure if the reaction was to the chill he’d mentioned, the way he’d lowered his voice as though letting her in on a secret, or to the affectionate way he’d said the words little hellion. It was almost like an endearment. He saw her shiver and pulled her against him, an arm securely fixed about her shoulders.

“You shouldn’t…” she started, but he cut her off.

“I shouldn’t do a lot of things, but I highly doubt your brother will disapprove.”

Rodrick chose that moment to snore loudly across from them. She sighed, trying not to notice the lovely warmth Alistair emitted, and the solid weight of his body against hers. “We ought to be getting home, I suppose.”

“Mmm,” he murmured in her ear. “I imagine you’ve discovered what you set out to discover here tonight.”

It wasn’t much by way of admission, but then again, she already knew her hunch was correct. Alistair leaned out and shouted for the driver to take her home. She thought for one fearful second he would leave her there, alone in the carriage. Well, alone with her brother, but alone for all intents and purposes. She didn’t want to be alone. For the first time in her life, she desperately wished not to be alone.

They weren’t done, she wanted to shout at him. She had to grip her hands in her skirts to keep from reaching out to him and pulling him back to her side. But she didn’t need to. He sank back into the seat at her side as the coach took off away from the docks and toward Braxton House.

“So,” Alistair said, turning to her with a congenial air. “You have found out about my brother…the pirate.” She blinked at the easy way he owned up to it. “What else do you know?”

It was a challenge, and she never backed away from a challenge. With that thought she reached out and plucked the flask from his fingers, taking a sip that burned her throat on the way down. She handed it back to him, ignoring his snort of amusement as her eyes watered from the sting.

“Warmer now?” he asked, his voice with a hint of tease.

Oh, how she itched to lean against him and purr. I am now, she’d say. But she did not. There was no need to encourage the man who seemed to think that sharing secrets was tantamount to some sort of twisted betrothal.

“How did he do it?” she asked, caving to her curiosity while maintaining some sort of dignity. “How did he fake his own death?”

To her surprise, Alistair answered. In low, grave tones he explained how his brother had grown increasingly at odds with their parents, particularly their father. It had only worsened after their mother’s death. Their father had started the privateering business to shore up their funds, but Marcus had overseen it and had witnessed the brutality of the world while doing business for their father. He’d met pirates, he’d seen the slave trade with his own eyes, and he’d watched as men like their father grew fatter and richer off the backs of the lower class. She interrupted when he mentioned Marcus’s time in France during the revolution.

“So your brother fancies himself a champion of the bourgeois then?” she asked, curiosity in her tone more than any sort of judgement. She’d been so caught up in his tale of Marcus she’d nearly forgotten she was guarding her own hand, still. Something inside of her had unfurled as she’d listened to Alistair, who so obviously respected his eccentric outsider of a brother.

That alone made her like Alistair more, but it also made her come alive inside. She felt something stirring that she’d never felt before. Hope, maybe. Hope that someone might someday see her for her true self and love her as Alistair did his brother. That she too might find a greater purpose as his brother had done, that she might put her intellect and her passions to some better use than manipulating the tediously predictable ton.

Alistair smiled at the question. “I don’t know that my brother would wish to be aligned with any one philosophy.” There was laughter in his voice as he went off topic and told her tales of his brother as a child—always obstinate, it seemed, and forever his own man. When he was done talking, she noted they’d come to a stop. How long had they been parked in front of her home?

He seemed to come to the same realization because he glanced over at her soundly sleeping brother and back to her. “I should let you and your chaperone get inside where it’s warm and comfortable.”

She should go inside. She knew that, but she was loath to see this night end. “But I have more questions,” she said.

He grinned. “I am sure you do.” He moved toward the carriage door and she stopped him with a hand on his arm. Something akin to panic had her reaching for him, possibly because his earlier threat still rang in her ears, or possibly because it no longer sounded like a threat. It sounded like a promise.

Quite frankly, she had no idea how she felt about that. “I still have not told you all that I know.”

His smile was slow and lazy, and she felt it to her deepest core. When he reached out and brushed the back of his hand against her cheek she shivered. “We’ll have all the time in the world to share our secrets with one another,” he said. “Once we’re wed.”

Their gazes clashed and she caught the flash of triumph. A game, she reminded herself. It was all a game—for him as well as her. He did not mean it and he did not want it, not really. He was merely trying to confound her and scare her off. But it would not work, and he wouldn’t get away with it.

She met his triumphant look with a mutinous glare. “I should have let the admiral arrest you,” she managed to say through clenched teeth.

His grin was quick and surprisingly boyish as he winked at her. Before she could respond, he closed the door behind him and Rodrick sat up with a start. “What did I miss?” he mumbled sleepily.

She stared across at her brother and sighed. “Nothing, Rodrick. Nothing at all.”

Mary was not nearly so easy to shake off. “What do you mean he wants you to be his wife?” she asked.

Henri scowled over at her friend as she trimmed the roses in her garden, though she nearly cut the blasted bush down full stop. The cloying scent made her ill, but then again, she had been inhaling the noxious perfume for days now. Alistair’s unceasing bouquets had driven her out of her own drawing room.

Mary looked uncertainly toward the door leading to the house where Alistair even now waited for her. “Are we really going to pretend that you are unable to accept callers?”

She turned her frown down to the rose in her hand before snipping the bloom mercilessly. The satisfaction it brought was fleeting, to say the least. Such petty vindictiveness against a flower was hardly a proper distraction from the knowledge Alistair was waiting for her. Again. For the third day in a row.

“He is merely doing this for show,” Henri explained to her friend. “He does not really want marriage.” Not a real marriage, at least.

Mary’s brow drew together in confusion. “Then what does he want?”

Henri snipped at the next bush. “To control me.”

Mary let out a little whistle that was entirely unladylike, so much so it made Henri grin despite her foul mood and knowing Alistair was waiting for her. He could wait forever for all she cared. Mary was silent for too long. Too long for Mary, at least.

“Go on,” Henri finally said as she drew off her gloves and turned to face her. “Say what it is you want to say.”

Mary pursed her lips. “It’s just that… It isn’t like you to run.”

Henri frowned, but she didn’t try to deny it. She had been running from Alistair ever since their last encounter in that hired hack. “I am no fool, Mary. And at this point in time, diversion and distance are the necessary precautions I must take.”

Mary looked unconvinced. “Diversion and distance,” she repeated. “Is that the same thing as hiding out among the bushes?”

Henri sighed. “Yes. In this instance, hiding seems to be the appropriate way to handle the matter.”

“But…why?” Mary said. “You never back down, and I’ve never known you to cower in fear.”

“I’m not cowering,” Henri shot back. “And I am not afraid.” A nagging voice begged to differ but she shushed it. To Mary she said, “This is self-preservation.”

“I see,” Mary said. Her expression said otherwise.

Henri looked down at her hands and back up at Mary. “I…” Oh Lord but this was humiliating. “I do not entirely trust myself around him.”

Mary tilted her head to the side. “Are you afraid of him?”

Henri shook her head quickly. “No. Of course not.” Liar. “At least, not like that,” she amended to satisfy that nagging voice. “I am not afraid that he will hurt me physically.”

“Ah,” Mary said on a long exhale.

Henri bristled at Mary’s knowing tone. It would have been irritating any other day, but at this particular moment, it rubbed her raw to think that simple, sweet Mary understood something she did not.

“What?” Henri snapped. “What do you mean by ‘ah?’”

Mary’s look turned condescending. “I have seen this before, you know.”

Henri frowned. “Seen what?”

Mary reached out gently and patted her arm like Henri was some sort of skittish horse. “Henri, dear…” She paused and bit her lip. “Have you considered that you might be in love with Lord Colefax?”

Henri reared back, gasping on air so quickly she nearly choked. As it was, she choked on her protests. “What? No! Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.” The words tumbled over themselves so quickly that Henri did not need to see Mary’s look of pity to know what she thought.

Because what Mary thought was the truth. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Oh heavens. Henri pressed a hand to her rapidly racing heart. Oh dear. She was a cliché—a trite, Shakespearean cliché. And worse than that?

She was in love.

“No,” she said, though it came out as a moan.

Mary responded with an apologetic wince. “I hate to be the one to point it out.”

It was the truth. Henri reached for her hand and squeezed. “No, dear, you were quite right to do it.” She straightened her spine and forced a long, deep inhale followed by a slow, steady exhale. “It is time to face the truth.” She gritted her teeth and pressed her lips together as she considered this new turn of events. She was a determined, savvy lady with a good brain, and she had gone and done something so inexcusably stupid. She had fallen in love.

After a moment, Mary broke into her stunned reverie. “He’s inside,” she said softly. “You could go in and speak with him and—”

“No.”

“But,” Mary persisted. “He wants to marry you and—”

“No.” Henri’s protest was louder and firmer this time as Mary’s words hit her square in the chest. He wants to marry you.

There. There was that pain again, the one that had been stubbornly stabbing at her gut and twisting in her chest ever since he’d walked away from her. “He does not want marriage,” she said again, and this time her voice was hoarse and sad, even to her own ears.

“But—” Mary started.

“Not a true marriage,” she said. Henri had said these same words before and thought them a million times, but this time she felt her heart break in two. This time she could no longer deny how much that hurt. She would rather have his hatred than a proposal such as this. She could handle his ire and his irritation, but his apathy? It cut like a knife. It also stung her pride. To know the man she’d developed feelings for merely wanted to control her like a pawn was too much. Wasn’t that what every other man who’d sought her hand had wanted to do too? It was that wounded pride that kept the tears at bay. She would not weep for a man like that, and she would not regret what could never be.

Mary met her gaze and the other woman’s unveiled sympathy was almost more than she could handle. Henri tore her hand from Mary’s grip and turned back to her roses. “Give it time,” she said quietly, as much to herself as to Mary. “Give it time and he will leave.”

He would leave her drawing room eventually, of course. He couldn’t stay there forever. What she had meant was, give it time and he would leave her life…for good. Once he realized she posed no threat, he would lose interest, and once he saw his half-hearted offer of marriage was unwanted, he’d turn his attentions to someone else.

He’d find someone he actually wanted by his side.