Chapter Six
“Why trouble yourself to find me?” Chloe said.
The duke walked forward, all lean muscle and power. “We have unfinished business.”
“Do we? I thought everything had been said.”
“Not quite.”
She stood and faced him squarely. “I came to your home and explained that I am a different person than I was in my youth, but you chose not to believe me. You threatened me to stay away, and when that didn’t work, you tried to bribe me.”
“And when that didn’t work, I kissed you,” he said, his voice low and smooth.
She felt an unwelcome surge of excitement. Her memories of the kiss were pure and clear. “I’d rather not talk about that.”
“Why? I can’t seem to forget about it.”
Goodness. She’d felt the same, but she would never admit it.
“Why Henry?” he asked.
Was he serious? Because Henry was young, handsome, kind, titled, and would make a splendid choice for any debutante this Season. Why should she be any different?
At her silence, his expression hardened.
“From what I saw, you already have another suitor. Fairchild’s heir. You can choose him over Henry.”
Was he jealous? The thought should make her turn and flee the gardens like a woman chased by footpads. Instead, it made her skin tighten. “I don’t do well with orders.”
“That’s a shame, because I’m used to having my commands followed.”
She raised her chin and eyed him defiantly. “By men. I’m a woman if you haven’t noticed.”
His gaze raked down her body, then returned to capture her eyes. “Oh, I’ve noticed.”
She flushed as an alarming heat traveled through her limbs. Clearing her throat, she struggled to maintain even ground with him. “That’s not what I meant…and you know it, Your Grace.”
“Don’t call me that. My name is Michael.”
Her pulse skittered. “Why on earth would I use your Christian name?” It was entirely improper, scandalously so. But then, nothing about their relationship was proper.
“I’m new to the title. It belongs to my father and brother.”
She knew about the tragic carriage accident that had killed his father and brother and left him with a dukedom. Was he devastated to come back unscathed from war only to learn his remaining family wasn’t there to welcome him home?
Or maybe he wasn’t unscathed. She recalled the strange episode at Bullock’s Museum outside the room that housed Napoleon’s carriage. He hadn’t seemed well…but rather injured in mind, not body. It had struck her as strange behavior for such a dominant and powerful man.
Michael. The name suited him. Not “Your Grace” or “duke” or “Cameron,” but simply Michael.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and she bit her lower lip.
“You shouldn’t do that. It makes me want to kiss you again.”
She fought the pull. He was bad for her, and heaven knew, she had been bad enough in her past. She refused to ruin her future. “You are just saying that to distract me, to ruin my chances with Henry.”
“I should be, but I mean every word.” Reaching out, he trailed a finger down her cheek and then across her bottom lip. She was shocked by the simple touch, gentle and mesmerizing. How could a man with calloused fingers hardened by battle be so gentle?
“I’ve wanted to touch you all through the conservatory tour,” he said. “And here…now…I finally have you alone.”
Chloe’s eyes widened at his bold words. She opened her mouth to protest, and he dipped his head and pressed his mouth to hers.
Oh God.
He made no move to embrace her. Only his lips touched hers. She was free to step back and end this madness. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t push him away. The press of his lips was a delicious sensation.
“Do you feel the spark between us?” he murmured huskily. Moving his head back and forth, he brushed her lips with his. Gentle…ever so maddeningly gentle. She fought the urge to lean into the kiss. Her fingers clenched into her fists, her nails digging into her palms rather than running up his arms to grasp his broad shoulders.
“Ah, you do.”
Her response was a whimper. This time, when he claimed her mouth, her lips parted on a sigh. He deepened the kiss and pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her waist. The hardness of his chest against her curves was shocking and arousing at once. A frisson of excitement seared through her. Her fists unfurled at his sides and her fingers slid up his arms to delve in his hair. The strands were soft and enticing, in contrast to the hardness of his body. His tongue traced the soft fullness of her lips, warm and sweet.
She sighed. For his cold, battle-hardened appearance, his kisses were as tender and light as a summer breeze. Warm and arousing at once. She should fear him. She should fear for her virtue, her reputation, her very existence in society. But she didn’t. Instead, she feared the rapid beat of her pulse at his nearness. The raw hunger in his eyes. The intense physical awareness of each other. The tremor inside her that heated her thighs and groin.
Drugged by his clean and manly scent, she kissed him back, her tongue tangling with his. He groaned and sucked her full bottom lip into his mouth like a ripe berry.
Heavens. She was in over her head, wasn’t she?
He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. “I’ve changed my mind. I won’t tell anyone your secret.”
She blinked and attempted to slow her rapidly beating heart. He still held her in his arms, and her soft curves were molded to the contours of his lean body.
“You won’t?”
“And forget my offer to pay you to leave Henry alone.”
“Truly?”
“I want something else from you. What will it take for you to be my lover? Jewels? A Mayfair town house? Name your price.”
A tight knot formed within her stomach. She pushed against his chest and took a step back. “You cannot be serious.”
“I’m always serious. Do not claim you are innocent. Not after your response to that kiss.”
She should slap him. But something about his arrogance sparked her fury. Of course, he thought her sexually experienced. A former thief and daughter of a criminal could never be innocent in his eyes. Why bother to correct him? He’d never believe her. And the kiss had been scintillating…wanton.
Instead, she tried another tactic to dissuade him. “What of Henry? How do you think he’d feel about your proposition?”
His brow creased, and for the first time, she noticed a flash of regret cross his expression. “Do you think I wanted it to be like this? I am supposed to look after Henry, not steal what he believes he wants, but the pull between us is too strong. It may be wrong, illogical even, but I can think of little else.”
She met his gaze and saw raw desire in the dark depths of his eyes that made her gasp. Desire that made her feel stripped of her gown, corset, and shift in an instant. Desire that said he couldn’t go long without tossing her over his broad shoulder and carrying her off to his bed where he would show her all the secret pleasures to be found in his arms.
For a fleeting instant, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to resist him. Then the reality of what he’d offered sank in.
He wanted her to be his mistress. He didn’t think of her as a lady worthy of marriage. Her traitorous body may shiver at his touch, but she didn’t want what he offered. She didn’t want to be a kept woman. Mistresses didn’t have the security of a man’s name or title. They could be abandoned far too easily and left behind with only a few shiny baubles. Her father had already abandoned her, and she would never stand for another man in her life to treat her the same way. She swore never to be a victim to a man’s whims again.
But a man as arrogant and sure of himself as the Duke of Cameron—Michael—would never understand. He didn’t care if he hurt her or not. He didn’t concern himself about her future or what would become of her when she grew old, or heaven forbid, fell ill. She swallowed hard, trying not to reveal her hurt or her anger. She refused to give him the satisfaction. The sudden need to wound him, just as he’d wounded her with his selfish request, welled in her chest.
“You flatter yourself, Your Grace. I wouldn’t agree to become your lover if you were the last man standing at this party.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You’re far too old, too arrogant, and too jaded for me.”
Tossing her head, she fled the gardens.
…
Michael stared after Chloe as she fled down the stone path. As soon as he’d arrived at Lady Webster’s garden party, he’d searched for her. When he’d spotted her speaking with Lord Fairchild, a cold knot had formed in his gut. The man had been too damned close, and his hand had rested possessively on Chloe’s arm. Michael’s instinctive reaction had been strong.
Jealousy.
The foreign emotion was as unsettling as it was uncomfortable. He was never possessive over a woman. No one had ever intrigued him enough to care. But Chloe Somerton was magnificent, unlike every other young lady at this ridiculous party. A large part of him admired her grit. The rest of him fiercely desired her.
He’d been right. She was not a virginal miss, and she hadn’t protested when he claimed she wasn’t innocent. Her past was too unsavory, and she was lucky she’d escaped the hangman’s noose. Rather than dissuade him, it only made her infinitely more interesting. He’d found himself hovering nearby in the conservatory tour, interrupting Henry’s attempts to court her.
He was still surprised at his own offer to make her his mistress. The thought had churned in his mind, but he hadn’t intended to voice it until he’d seen her with Fairchild. Now that the offer had been made, he knew it was the perfect solution.
He refused to marry with his condition. The fits were increasing in frequency. But he needn’t worry about a mistress. He’d only see her when he was certain an episode would not occur, and unlike a wife, he could leave at any time. Meanwhile, their shared attraction was strong and mutual. No one would know of their secret liaison.
Michael’s only hesitation was Henry. The young man had his heart set on Chloe, and Michael struggled with remorse. He tried to push his guilt aside. Henry didn’t know about her colorful past or that she was using him for his newfound title and wealth. He believed her innocent, and she acted the part to perfection.
Whatever doubts Michael had that she would make a good match for Henry multiplied after their second heated kiss. Chloe Somerton needed a man who could match her mettle. Not a fawning admirer who would send flowers and read poetry and bend to her every demand. She’d quickly tire of such a companion. No, she needed a man who could tame her wild rebelliousness while unleashing her hidden passion.
Too old, be damned.
She’d challenged him. Again. He wondered what it would take for her to accept.