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“Oh, cruel accusation,” he said with theatrical dismay, however accurate her suspicions. He hadn’t set out that night to entrap Roberta into adultery, but the occasion would have tempted a much better man than Jonas Merrick. Especially as he’d always known that Roberta’s disdain for him included an unhealthy dollop of fascination. “Offering yourself as substitute is a devilish strong demonstration of sisterly devotion.”
The girl didn’t answer. He rose and prowled down the room. “If I’m to accept this exchange, I should see what I’m getting. Roberta may be a henwit, but she’s a deuced decorative henwit.”
“She’s not a henwit.” Miss Forsythe edged away, then stopped to ask suspiciously, “What are you doing, Mr. Merrick?”
His advance didn’t falter. “Unwrapping my gift, Miss Forsythe.” “Unwr…?” This time she didn’t bother hiding her retreat. “No.”
His lips curled in sardonic amusement. “You mean to wear your wet cloak all night?”
The color in her cheeks intensified. She really was pretty with her creamy skin and full-lipped mouth. Now that he was close enough to look into her eyes, he saw they were a deep, velvety brown like pansies. Sexual interest stirred. Nothing quite so strong as arousal, but curiosity that could soon become hunger.
“Yes. I mean, no.” She raised a shaking hand in its black leather glove. “You’re trying to intimidate me.”
He still smiled. “If I am, I’d say I’m succeeding.”
She drew herself up to her full height. She was tall for a woman, but didn’t come near to matching his more than six feet. “I told you why I’m here. I won’t fight you. There’s no need to play the villain from an
opera.”
“You’ll endure my distasteful caresses but won’t let me take your cloak? Seems a little silly.”
She stopped backing away, purely because she bumped into the stone wall behind her. Her eyes flared gold with anger. “Don’t mock me.”
“Why not?” he asked lazily. He reached to release the ties at her throat.
She pressed into the wall in a futile attempt to escape. “I don’t like
feeling trembling tension beneath the saturated wool. “Before we’re done, you’ll get used to a great deal.”
Bleak self-awareness hardened her expression. “I imagine you’re right.”
The amusement left his voice. “Roberta isn’t worth this, you know.” The girl—Miss Forsythe, Sidonie—stared back without shying
away. “Yes, she is. You don’t understand.”
“I daresay I don’t.” If the wench was determined to rush to perdition, who was he to argue? Especially as she smelt agreeably of rain and a faint evocative hint of woman. When he slid the cape
from her shoulders and let it fall in a sodden heap, he revealed a body
pleasingly curved to fit his hands.
She gasped as the garment slipped, then stood quivering. Her jaw set with truculent determination. “I’m ready.”
“I doubt you are, bella.” He paid closer attention to her clothing and spoke with genuine horror. “What on earth have you got on?”
The look she shot him indicated virulent dislike. “What’s wrong with it?”
He cast a disapproving glance over the ruffled white muslin, too young for her, too light for the wretched night, too unfashionable, too… everything. “Nothing, if you’re dressing to play the virgin sacrifice.”
“Why not?” she said with a revival of spirit. “I am a virgin.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course you are. Which begs the question
why you’re presenting me with your maidenhead instead of letting your fool sister clean up her own mess.”
“You’re offensive, sir.”
He muffled a laugh. She proved more amusing than Roberta. At the very least, Roberta would have treated him to a display of hysterics by now. He couldn’t picture this grave goddess resorting to such. Perhaps this was his lucky night after all. His lurking frustration at Roberta’s maneuvers, fading under the influence of this lovely girl’s defiance, vanished. Trapping Roberta had been no great challenge, however satisfying the prospect of swiving his loathed cousin’s wife. Seducing Sidonie Forsythe promised fine sport indeed.
