CHAPTER THIRTEEN
From across the carriage, Nathaniel examined Rose. Shadow played over her as she gazed out the window, painting the lines of her face in light and dark as they made their way from Faringdon Abbey to their lodgings at Lowry’s Inn.
She did not know he stared. He at least had the sense still to conceal such, observing her in such a way she had no idea he did so. He stared as the light shifted over her face and wondered what she was thinking.
Annoyed with himself, he tore his gaze from her. He thought of her too much. He would lie in bed at night and recall the sound of her laugh or the shape of her smile. He did not know why he did this. She was a woman like any other, and it should not matter that her mind fascinated him, that her skin tempted him, that he wanted to draw her body against his and feel her softness. The last was not so unusual. He felt lust like the next man, and she was an attractive woman. If he thought of her beyond what she brought to the case, that should be the total of it. Passing lust, easily forgotten. And yet…he found himself thinking of her.
Then tonight…tonight, she had turned her smiles and her conversation and her observations to Lord Henry Faringdon, and Nathaniel had not liked how Faringdon had looked at her, how he had monopolised her attention as if it were his due, and how she had let him, smiling and laughing and conversing with him easily.
Something rested uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach, growing larger and tighter, the same something that had roiled inside him as he’d watched Faringdon’s fingers inch their way closer to Rose along the pristine white tablecloth. “You should not have allowed such familiarity,” he said abruptly.
Rose started. Turning her attention from the night to him, she said, “I beg your pardon?”
His breath caught. She was luminous in the moonlight, her skin creamy and her mouth… her lips were luscious and soft and he craved to know her taste.
This was not to be borne. He did not…feel like this. He did not obsess about a woman, about her movements and her smiles and how she offered them to someone other than him. “You should not have pandered to Faringdon’s blandishments. He was too obvious in his attempts to seduce you.”
Confusion creased her brow. “I— Pardon?”
He understood her confusion. He was confused too. This shouldn’t matter to him. It did not matter she had given her attention to Faringdon. It was illogical in the extreme, but he was committed to this course now. He had allowed his thoughts voice, and so he said, “He was too familiar. Recall he is not struck from our list of suspects. It is unwise to allow him to seduce you.”
“He was not seducing me.” The crease between her brow deepened, an expression he knew often signified annoyance. “And if it were, it would not matter. I have met Lord Henry’s ilk before and have observed him in particular. I know the difference between sincerity and design.”
“Are you certain? It appeared otherwise.”
“It may have appeared such, but I assure you it was not.” Her breath escaped in a rush. “Have you considered the possibility I thought it best to let him believe his charms were working? That I deliberately made him believe his charm was successful? You must know as well as I it is easier to manage someone when they underestimate you.”
He opened his mouth to retort only to close it with a snap. She was correct in her logic however…still his stomach roiled. “I know how to seduce a woman.”
Shock widened her eyes and blood rushed to stain her cheeks. “I did not claim you did not.”
He had not meant to say such. He had…blurted the words. He, who was deliberate in every word he spoke. However, now that he had set on this course of action, he perceived wisdom in it. He had never had to work hard to seduce a woman. He had followed the steps he’d observed Hiddleston employ, and they worked well enough. If he could categorise Rose, prove she was as like as any other woman, he would no longer be fascinated.
He smiled, the one that always seemed to make women swoon. “I do not wish you to think I do not know what I am about.”
Green eyes locked with his, she said, “I have no doubt.” The words were tart but she spoke them with a breathless lilt.
His fingers twitched. He did not dare break their gaze, to lose the spell he cast over her, but in the back of his mind he knew what that meant. He was falling prey to his own scheme, for he was desperate to touch her.
“It is about what could be. Almosts and maybes,” he rasped. Heartbeat thick and heavy in his chest, he forced a false languidness to the reach of his hand toward her. She watched his hand, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Lust flared, but he controlled it as he allowed his hand to drift over her cheek but never to touch.
Her eyes darkened, her teeth sinking into the soft pink flesh deeper. “You have nothing to prove,” she said faintly.
He drowned in green. Dazed, she swayed toward him and he met her halfway, cradling the back of her head with his hand. Her lashes were dark, matching her brows, a colour wholly different to the blonde strands he tangled between his fingers, like cool silk against his skin. Her breath ghosted over his mouth and the scent of her wound about him, verbena and lemons and a sweet fragrance that could only be her. Muscles clenching, he felt himself harden as he breathed her in.
Bloody hell. She was seducing him.
“Nathaniel,” she whispered, and the sound of his name on her lips was his undoing.
With a harsh groan, he kissed her. She opened for him eagerly, her tongue meeting his, her taste an explosion to his senses. She tasted like lemon drops and mint, and he was dazed by her, her scent winding into him. She collapsed backwards and he followed her to her side of the carriage, caging himself around her gently. Her fingers speared into the short strands of hair at the base of his neck, the slight tug driving him mad with want.
There was no already established category for her, no space she shared with others. She was only Rose.
The thought broke through passion and he tore himself from her. Eyes still closed, she touched her tongue to her bottom lip, as if savouring the taste he’d left behind. Lust flared again, and he almost reached for her, but he restrained himself. Somehow.
She opened her eyes and they stared at each other, the sounds of the journey to the inn permeating the silence between them. He did not know what to say, so he said nothing.
Slowly, the dazed look faded. Embarrassment and then shame took its place, and he did not know what to say to make her not look such, to make it so she knew there was no shame in what they had done, none but that he wanted her to the exclusion of all else, that he could not stop thinking of her, and that was unacceptable. But it was his shame, not hers. Never hers.
Her hand shook as she smoothed her hair, as she cleared her throat. She did not speak, though, and something in her eyes died when he did not speak either. She looked again out the window and he, surreptitiously, looked at her.
When, finally, they finally reached the inn, she murmured a phrase that sounded like good evening and departed. He did not remember how he got to his rooms, or how he readied himself for bed. He did, however, once again spent the night thinking of her, but now he knew the taste of her on his tongue.
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