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Nothing terrifically complicated.
Then she’d stared at him with those radiant blue eyes and asked him to let her go.
And bugger, bugger, bugger, he’d suddenly imagined he was sodding Sir Galahad.
He hadn’t felt pity for a woman since he was a boy. The women he fucked were perfectly willing when he took them, however much they might repent their behavior later.
Yet he’d pitied Antonia Smith. Although pity seemed too weak a description for the emotion that had closed his throat and made him suddenly long to be an honorable man.
He’d grieved to think he disappointed her.
Hurt her.
He was a rake. Hurting and disappointing women were the mainstays of his existence.
That kiss had been a bedamned mistake.
Not the kisses that commanded her response. That other kiss. The poignant, heartbreaking one.
The kiss that had flung him into a different world, that had promised a clean start. Salvation. Kindness. Something beyond the forgettable parade of women.
He already knew Antonia Smith wouldn’t join that parade. He’d remember her forever.
Blast her to Hades.
How dare she remind him. . .
Remind him of what? His essential solitude? His lack of direction, beyond this quest for revenge, which ended any day now? His longing for something better than he deserved?
His longing for a woman like Antonia Smith?
If he’d had any breakfast, he’d be casting it up over his boots. What inspired this sentimental pap?
Just in case she misunderstood exactly who he was, he’d set out to frighten her, convince her he was a heartless beast. He’d never treated a lover so. Shame was a foreign emotion, but he recognized shame as he remembered those rough kisses he’d forced upon her.
Kisses she’d repaid with a piercing tenderness that made him sick to the gut at the bastard he was.
He’d stared into her eyes, dark with confusion and unwilling passion, and for one stark, horrible instant, he’d wished to be that different man. He’d wished to be worthy of her.
Hell, no. He was perfectly happy with who he was. He had more freedom than anyone he knew. He took what he wanted and discarded it when he’d had his fill. His world held no limits.
In his arms, Antonia had verged on surrender. Would have surrendered if he’d persisted after that astonishing kiss that sent his brains a-begging. He could right now be pounding into her.
Instead he’d let her go.
He’d let her go.
Never again.
Twice she’d escaped. And twice, for God’s sake, he’d released her. He couldn’t even pretend she’d evaded his pursuit.
With a purposeful surge, he rose. Antonia Smith had had her amnesty. The game between them became as important as life and death. The man he believed himself to be, the scoundrel he wanted to be, wouldn’t permit compassion to sway him next time.
The dragon would be his. Compassion be damned.
Antonia sneaked into her room without anyone except the stable hands seeing her. She didn’t deceive herself they had the slightest doubt what she’d been up to. Even without Lord Ranelaw bribing them for information about her, her rumpled appearance betrayed her. She’d left dressed like a respectable woman. She returned looking like she’d been dragged through a hedgerow. It didn’t take much to guess the reason why.
She could weather a little gossip below stairs as long as it didn’t reach the houseguests. Dear heaven, let the gossip not spread.
