“You are pushing your luck, Viscountess Hentley.”
“I have no luck,” she snapped.
He leaned closer, inhaling her scent. “If you do not move another inch, you will find yourself lifted and placed out of my way.”
Her amber eyes flared as blush surged over her cheekbones, down her neck, and disappeared into the modest line of her bodice, where her plump breasts heaved before him.
“You willnottouch me,” she said, though the words were faint.
“Do not be so certain.”
For a second, silence hung between them. He could tilt his head, and his mouth would touch her temple. Or slide his hands down and feel the curve of the hip that the dress so poorly concealed. Desire pressed against his restraint with a slow force.
Instead, he stepped back an inch. Enough to show he would give her that, at least.
For now.
“You really have no notion of who I am,” he said quietly, studying her. “Or why I am here.”
Her chin lifted. “I know precisely who you are.”
“Do you?” He let a sliver of irritation thread his curiosity. “Enlighten me.”
“You are a murderer.”
The word landed between them with the weight of a stone.
Slowly, he said, “What did you say?”
Regret flickered over her face, and she bit her lower lip hard, as if she might catch the words and pull them back by force. His gaze followed the movement, utterly against his will. He was mesmerized by the soft give of flesh under teeth, and the way the color deepened as she released it.
That innocent, infuriating mouth.
“You cannot throw accusations like that at a man, Little Blossom…” He let his eyes drop deliberately to her mouth and watched her breath stop. “…and then bite your lip like that.”
CHAPTER 4
“I...” Iris swallowed hard. “I should not have said that.”
The duke’s eyes were on her lips, and she could not stop gnawing at them nervously. His expression was unreadable.
“It was just a rumor,” she said, the words tumbling out faster, as though she could outpace her own foolishness. “They say… they say you killed your brother. But it was careless of me to repeat such talk because I do not believe it.”
One of his brows lifted, a minute flex above the savage yet beautiful line of the scar.
“You do not believe it, and yet you accuse me of being a murderer,” he said sarcastically.
“What else could I say to someone as insufferable as you?” she muttered under her breath, then forced herself to meet his gaze.“You are arrogant and appallingly rude, and you are a brute who just barged in without?—”
“Thank you,” he cut her off dryly.
“Let me finish.” He looked pleasantly surprised at her. “But you cannot be the kind of man who kills his own brother.”
She waited for a response but got none.
It struck her then how little she knew of men. Her own brief acquaintance with the viscount and her father’s gentle melancholy had taught her something about bluster and diffidence. But none of them had prepared her for a man who stood like the duke before her.
“However, you should believe the rumors.” his voice dropped dangerously low.
