Page 15

What he had just said shredded that ideal. To know that he was just another licentious lord hurt far deeper than the discovery that her hero was a man after all. To know that she had been a willing participant hurt even more. She thought she had more self-control than that.

“What was your plan, Your Grace?” she asked. “Do you take me against the oak tree? Do we meet up tonight after the ball is over?” Her throat constricted. Good God, she wanted to. Part of her was praying he’d ask her to come to him tonight. What delights could he bring her?

“That was not my plan.” His voice was cold. His body stiffened and pulled back from her. “Kynthea, I did not intend any of that.”

“Really?” she taunted. Her words came out sharp because she hurt. Her hero thought of her as a lightskirt. “Did you trip and fall upon my lips?”

She hadn’t thought he could stand up straighter, but he reared back far enough to look down at her. “You accepted my kiss. You grabbed my shoulders and—”

“I know!” she cried out. Then she pressed her hands to her mouth. She had to lower her voice. What if someone overheard? “Of course, I wanted it. You are a duke!” She would not confess that up until that moment, he had been her hero.

“I did not take advantage,” he said stiffly.

“You are a duke!” she all but screamed. “You get everything you want, even me.” Those last two words cut her. She wanted to give herself to him. Her body still burned for him. “But I must think of what happens afterwards.”

“It was just a kiss,” he said. Then he looked around. “No one need know.”

He did think her a lightskirt. So long as no one knew, then it was all right for him to take her virginity to pass the time before Zoe’s ball. “I would know, Your Grace. And what would I think of myself in the morning?”

That it had been worth it, whispered a sinful part of her.

That same part that ached to be back in his arms. That part that knew her breasts were heavy and her nipples tight.

The part that reminded her how boring, how lonely the life of a paid companion could be.

This might be her one chance to know a man’s passion.

And of all the men in the world to love, she’d found a duke.

When she was old, she would still be able to whisper to herself that she had known the passion of a duke.

“I was overcome. I wasn’t thinking.” He looked at her. “It was just a kiss.” He didn’t say it as a man sneering at a woman’s silliness. He said it as someone thinking to himself that what was nothing to him, might be a great deal to her.

“I am nothing compared to you,” she said.

“A kiss under a tree is like an apple at breakfast to you. One is no more special than another. And yet, to me, you are… You could be…” She closed her eyes.

She had to say the truth out loud and pray that the sinful part of her nature heard it clearly.

“You will not be my everything, Your Grace. I will not allow it. You will not marry me. You will not ever remember me. Therefore, I refuse to give you more of myself than you surrender to me.”

She opened her eyes. She lifted her chin and dared him to force her to give him more. Inside, she was pleading. Please, please say you adore me. Say you want me as much as I want you.

But her rational mind knew he would not. What passed for adoration in a man was very different than what it was for a woman.

She saw him swallow. He took a firm step backwards, tugged on his waistcoat to straighten it, then executed the most formal and deep bows before her. She felt no mockery in his movement. Indeed, if she had to guess, he seemed earnest in this gesture of respect.

And when he straightened, he looked her in the eye.

“You impress me, Miss Petrelli. And I have acted very badly. I apologize.”

This was exactly what she wanted. He apologized. He admitted he was at fault and showed her the respect he might give to the Queen. She dipped her chin and curtseyed back. All very proper. All exactly as it ought.

And yet, inside she sobbed. She didn’t want his formality.

She wanted them both to be overcome by their needs.

She wanted to throw herself into the madness of his arms. Other women did it.

She could rattle off the names of mistresses to kings and powerful noblemen.

But she couldn’t take that step. She was still a vicar’s daughter, and some things were anathema to her.

She straightened up from her curtsey and ran her hands over her gown. “Does it show?” she asked as she touched her hair. “What we did?”

His gaze was critical as it cut across her hair and body. “You look as pristine as marble.”

Was that good?

He sighed. “I mean that as a compliment, Miss Petrelli. I have visited the statues of Athena and Aphrodite. Marble goddesses that looked so real, I believed they could step down from their pedestals to greet me.”

“And yet they are cold and remote.”

“Beauty to be honored, Miss Petrelli. Not abused.” He glanced behind him. “I will go in now. Follow in a bit when you feel more composed.”

That would be never. Or at least not for a long while. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He cast her a wry look. “It is the least I can do.”

So many men would do much, much less. She curtsied again which made his expression turn to a self-mocking grimace. “Good evening, Miss Petrelli.”

Then he walked away.