Page 72 of To Steal a Kiss

“I’m just considering all the things I would rather do that ever give myself to you,” she said in a sweet, breathless tone. “Let me see… die an old maid, oh yes, that’s one. Live in the gutter, that’s two. Give myself to almost any other man in the world, no matter how lowborn….” She flashed him a coquettish smile. “You know, I could do this all day. It’s rather amusing.”

He didn’t react, did not betray the slightest indication of having even heard the insults. Knowing just how highly he prized his name and impeccable lineage, it was likely the worst litany of things she could possibly have said to him. He didn’t so much as blink. The hand at her wrist still held her, but there was no pressure to it. She could have snatched it free but somehow it would have felt like weakness, and she’d not be weak before him.

So, when he reached out with his free hand and touched her cheek, her unsteady intake of breath was infuriating. It was a delicate touch, just a fingertip, as if he was daring to put his hand to something forbidden and exquisite, but she felt it all the way to her toes.

Matilda’s breathing grew increasingly erratic. Something hot and uncomfortable uncoiled inside her, a liquid heat that made her skin tighten with awareness. It was nonsensical, this reaction. Since he’d ruined her, she’d become accustomed to rejecting advances from men who thought to take liberties with her. She’d have no compunction with slapping a man’s face, nor kicking him in the shins if the occasion demanded it.

It was the perfect opportunity to slap his damn face, and yet she was frozen, immobile, yet burning alive with sensation, and she could not fathom why.

Just as the silence and the tenderness of his hand on her cheek were becoming intolerable with the confusion it brought bubbling up inside of her, he spoke.

“There is something between us.” He sounded as mystified by the idea as she was. “I should like to discover what it is.”

Matilda forced her gaze to his and felt a jolt of something pass between them, as though to illustrate his words. Her cheeks blazed. She snatched her wrist from his grasp.

“There is nothing between us,” she said, feeling a strange flicker of uncertainty in her chest as the words left her mouth. “Nothing but loathing and contempt.”

“You disappoint me,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, softer. “It is craven of you to deny the obvious, and I have always admired your courage. You have never cowed away from me, never backed down. You have more backbone than most men of my acquaintance.” His lips quirked a little. “And I know some rather terrifying people.”

Matilda stared at him. She didn’t know what to do with such a comment. Her instinct was to rage at him further, but something perverse inside her unfurled with pleasure at his words.

She was mad. There was no other explanation. She would have to be addled to have any desire to please him, insane to recognise the thrill of having his approval.

“I don’t care for your admiration, and I don’t give a damn for your disappointment.”

There was amusement in his eyes now, as if he knew she was lying, knew everything she’d just experienced, all the uncertainty and confusion and heat, and she really did want to slap him. Instead she looked him in the eyes.

“Just so there is no misunderstanding between us,” she said, willing her voice not to tremble, “I would starve in the streets before I let you put your hands on me. I’d rather bed a viper.”

“A little overdramatic, Miss Hunt,” he murmured, tilting his head a little, as if assessing a street performer. “But illuminating and certainly vivid in its descriptive quality.”

Matilda flushed, her fists clenching. So much for rattling the marquess’s cage; the only person she’d enraged was herself.

“Go to hell,” she said, turning her back on him and walking away, despising herself for having allowed him to goad her, when she’d sought to do the same to him.

Someday, she promised herself, someday she would shatter that smug composure of his, and then… then she’d have the last laugh.

Matilda was almost back to the carriage when she heard her name called across the square.

“Miss Hunt. Matilda!”

“Lucia,” she exclaimed, more than relieved to see a friendly face, especially one she could vilify every man on the planet to with impunity.

She greeted the young woman, who seemed to grow lovelier every time Matilda saw her. Today, she wore an enchanting gown and matching spencer of emerald green, trimmed with white satin. A spring bonnet of green–and-white satin crowned her black curls, which crowded about her face.

“Oh, I am glad to see you,” Matilda said, with real feeling, taking the young woman’s arm. Behind Lucia she noticed a footman, standing a discreet distance away and loaded down with boxes. “A little shopping?” she asked, laughing a little as the poor man juggled the stack in alarm as it slid sideways. The smallest box on the top toppled and Lucia caught it in a deft, gloved hand, and grinned.

“Poor John,” she said to the footman, who blushed scarlet. “I’m a terrible trial to him. Speaking of which,” she added, taking Matilda’s arm, “did I see you speaking with Montagu?”

Matilda fought a blush and grimaced. “You did.”

“Oh, there’s gossip, isn’t there?” Lucia said, her dark eyes alight with mischief. “Do come home and have tea with me. You can tell me everything. I’m only a few minutes’ walk from here.”

Matilda hesitated.

“Oh, do say you’ll come,” Lucia begged, looking so earnest that Matilda couldn’t help but smile. “Though we’re in a terrible mess. There’s been some dreadful mix-up with the lease and so we’re being evicted. Can you believe it? Boxes everywhere. It’s enough to make me want to scream. We shall have to find something else before the end of the week, or I shall be living on the street.”

“That’s a coincidence,” Matilda said ruefully. “I’m moving too. In fact—”