Kitabı oku: «A Reckless Encounter», sayfa 5
7
Jacqueline paced the floor of Celia’s chamber with small, energetic steps. Her hair was awry, straggling from the usually neat coil atop her head; the curls she liked to wear in ringlets on her forehead dangled in her eyes rather than the usual tidy coils. She was distraught as she passed beneath the soft glow of a wall sconce, still wearing a ballgown that dragged across the Aubusson carpet in a satin trail.
“Whatever were you thinking, Celia?” she moaned. “To so insult Lord Northington—what mischief made you do it?”
Celia sighed. “After what Lady Jersey said…”
“My God, do you think any of that matters? Lord Northington is a member of the peerage! And it is only gossip. Oh, if he is offended enough he can ruin your chances—”
“He is not offended.” Celia dragged a brush through her loose hair; it crackled slightly, fine filaments arcing to meet the silver-backed hairbrush like a pale cloud of lightning. “He is intrigued.”
Jacqueline paused in midstep and turned to stare at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that, instead of fawning over him as were all the other young ladies and their mamas, I presented him with a challenge. It has not escaped my notice that there are men who prefer challenges to easy conquests. Did you not notice that his eyes did not leave me the rest of the evening?” A slight lie; she’d been well aware of him, but he had seemed content enough to ignore her for the short time he had remained. What would Jacqueline say if she knew what he’d done on the terrace?
She turned on the dressing stool to face her cousin. “I find him—aggressive.”
Jacqueline was staring at her with an arrested expression.
“What is it, petite? Did—did Northington insult you when you felt faint? He didn’t say anything—”
“No, no, nothing like that, I swear it, but he did approach me again before he left the ball, and I agreed to ride with him in the park Tuesday. So you see, I have piqued his interest with indifference.”
Gaping at her, Jacqueline finally nodded. “Yes, but it is true! Oh, how foolish I have been. You are right, my little one,” she babbled in French, half-laughing. “You have managed what most have not! To snare the attentions of the elusive Lord Northington.”
“If only half the rumors are true, there are many who have managed to snare his attention for a while.”
“But you, my clever little pigeon, will manage to hold his attention. How stupid I have been! An imbecile!”
Celia’s smile felt stiff on her lips. What had she done? Oh, she must be utterly mad to have agreed to ride with him in the park, for he’d made it plain enough that he had more on his mind than a mere sedate tour. And the invitation had seemed more of an afterthought, for he was leaving while she was being escorted onto the dance floor by Sir John.
“Northington,” Harvey had said, halting him, “you’ve met Miss St. Clair, have you not?”
“I have.” Blue eyes had skimmed her briefly with an air of polite boredom, as if he had not been so bold as to kiss her on the terrace.
“Miss St. Clair has informed me that she’s not yet been for a turn in Hyde Park,” Harvey had continued with a smile that could only be described as wicked. “And, as my carriage is unfortunately in disrepair at the moment, I assured her you would be so kind as to escort her one day.”
“I hardly think Miss St. Clair will lack for offers,” Northington drawled, but his eyes rested on her face with a glint of amusement, as if he suspected she had engineered the invitation.
Trapped, Celia could only return his stare with a cool gaze of her own. “Indeed, my lord, your confidence is uplifting.”
“My tours of Hyde Park are always very extensive,” he had said then, “but should Miss St. Clair wish, I would be more than happy to escort her.”
If not for Harvey’s interference, she suspected Lord Northington would not have suggested it at all. Indeed, a faintly sardonic smile had accompanied that overly polite invitation, so that she’d almost refused.
He expects me to refuse, she’d realized, and to be perverse, had said sweetly that she would be honored.
What have I done? she thought now, despairingly. Oh, why did I have to be so perverse?
“But you must be cautious,” Jacqueline was saying, her mood buoyed now, “and not be too much of a challenge. You do not wish to truly offend him. There is a fine line you must walk if you wish to succeed. Remember, my sweet, Northington is quite accustomed to having his own way. Ah, but he is so handsome, yes, and despite his reputation he is quite a catch. One day he will be earl of Moreland. How lovely it would be if you were to marry him. Lady Moreland is one of my dearest friends. I have known her for years.”
“You never told me that,” Celia said quietly, and placed her hairbrush on the dresser. “I had no idea.”
“Yes, it was Margaret who introduced me to my husband so long ago. I was only a penniless emigré then, so young and afraid. Your dear mama and I barely escaped with our lives, you know, and we had so little money. We came to London to stay with friends who had fled France before that terrible time.”
She never referred to it as the Revolution, but as that “terrible time” or “the Terror.” Now she looked up at Celia, eyes wide with memories.
“Some were fortunate and clever enough to escape with some of their wealth. So many did not, so many died…but Léonie and I, we were young, and pretty if penniless, so were offered refuge. Lady Moreland—she was Lady Northington then—was my patroness. I shall never be able to repay her for all her kindnesses to me.”
Celia was silent. God, perhaps…should she tell Jacqueline how Léonie had really died? Should she tell her that the husband of her dearest friend was responsible for her death? Oh God.
Jacqueline came to her, put a hand on her shoulder. “Do not look so sad, my dear. It is behind us now. And I am quite content with my Jules, and your mama was so very happy with her handsome American. Shall I tell you again how they met? And how he was so enchanted with her, he took her from the arms of a baron and swept her away out onto the terrace where they danced alone? It was so romantic despite the scandal, and even though I thought Léonie could have married any man in London, she fell in love with her sea captain.”
“Yes. They were very much in love.”
Leaning close, her cousin whispered, “There are so many in this world who never know that kind of love, my child. Do not grieve so very much for them. They were more fortunate than most.”
“Yes.” Celia swallowed the surge of emotion in her throat, the impulse to confess all. “Yes, they were very fortunate.”
“And if the good God wills it, so will you be. Ah, you are so very like your mother, you know. There are times I look at you and it is like seeing Léonie again, when she was very young and we had first come to England.” Reaching out, Jacqueline lifted a skein of Celia’s hair, let it slide through her fingers, a silky tumble. “Do not cut your hair. It may be the style now, but this suits you. So soft, and such a lovely shade of dark gold—”
“No. No, I won’t.” Celia rose from the small stool set before the dresser, suddenly restless, unable to bear another moment of guilt. How could she even contemplate an act that may very well disgrace Jacqueline? The stain of her sin would spread, like ink on a clean blotter, ruining all it touched. She felt sick.
“Oh, when Northington waltzed you out onto the terrace I thought I would faint, too,” Jacqueline was saying with a smile. “But now—now perhaps it is as it was with your dear mama and papa, eh? Could it be that he has formed an attachment for you already? And, perhaps, you for him?”
“No.” The denial was jerked from her, an instant reaction, and she put a hand over her mouth to halt more betraying words.
“Are you unwell?” Jacqueline frowned at her, then gave a nod of her head. “Ah, it is the excitement of the evening. It’s too much for you. I should have thought of that. Well, my dear, you are a success. Lady Jersey and Lady Cowper thought you enchanting, and Lord Northington singled you out for a dance. Sleep well, knowing that the world is before you. You can do anything with it you wish.”
Celia swallowed hard. The enormity of her betrayal loomed before her eyes, Jacqueline’s kindness and love like a raw wound that wouldn’t heal. How could she keep it to herself, not confide in this woman who was so good to her? Oh God, it was so confusing, so…perilous.
She leaned forward, wanting to say so much yet not quite daring to say too much, the words coming out shaky and not sounding like herself.
“It is not always so easy to do. There are times—There are things that make people do what they wouldn’t ordinarily do, you know. I may fail you.”
“My child, failure is impossible. Whatever you choose to do, it will be right.” Jacqueline smiled. “I have faith in you.”
“Don’t—oh, don’t have faith in me!” Celia blurted, then stopped when her cousin just stared at her. Shaking her head, Celia managed a light laugh. “I’m afraid the champagne punch went to my head. You’re right, of course. I shall do what I must.”
“And now you must rest. It has been a long evening, and soon the sun will be up. I shall instruct Lily not to wake you. Rest, my dearest. You and Carolyn were the toast of the ton this evening. I am so fortunate to have two such lovely young ladies in my household!”
Once in bed, with only the glow from the coals in the grate to light the room, Celia was consumed by anguish. Hot tears wet her cheeks, grief for her parents and guilt for the treachery with which she returned her cousin’s affection. If only she dared confide in her, tell her what had happened so long ago. But she did not dare. And to learn that Jacqueline’s dearest friend was Lady Moreland—no, she would never understand or approve.
And I could not expect her to, Celia thought sadly. It was so unexpected that she would feel such affection for Jacqueline. It overshadowed everything.
Yet I cannot let it deter me from exacting justice on Moreland! she thought fiercely. Nor will I trust his son. Despite his invitation for an innocent ride in the park, Lord Northington was dangerous.
That was clear enough. She hadn’t expected him to be so determined, so forceful, on the terrace. Nor had she expected him to be aroused, but she had been well aware of his hard arousal pressing against her belly, the strength of it shocking. It had alarmed her, but even more alarming was her response to him. For a moment, just a brief instant, she had found herself kissing him back.
Dieu! But it had taken all her strength of will to walk away, to pretend a coolness and indifference she certainly had not felt at the moment. It was surprising he hadn’t seen through her effort, for she’d thought at any moment that her knees would buckle and she’d sink to the floor.
Yet she hadn’t.
And in a few days, she would be forced to spend time with him, to continue the deception. God, if only there was another way, but she saw none. What else could she do? It made her head hurt to even think of it anymore, to even try to form a cohesive plan. Putting her fingers to her temples, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
It was Northington’s father she wanted to ruin. If she had to use his son, she would. It might even be justice of a sort.
Why waste pity on a man who thought it appropriate to seduce young women on their very own terraces? If she had given him more encouragement, no doubt he would have lifted her skirts. No, she wouldn’t lose a moment’s sleep over either Northington, young or old.
Yet when she succumbed at last to sleep, it was a troubled slumber with vivid dreams and haunting images.
Jacqueline Leverton sat at her dressing table and frowned slightly at her reflection as the maid brushed out her hair. Celia seemed so…so grieved about something, but she could not learn what it might be. The poor child. Of course, with both her parents dead now she must feel terribly alone. At least when she and Léonie had fled France they’d had each other.
Now Celia was here, and she owed it to Léonie to do all she could for her daughter. They’d made a pact during those dark days, that they would always be there for each other. This was the only way she had now of keeping that pact with her cousin.
But even if she did not do it for any other reason, she would do it for Celia. There was a melancholy quality to her that exuded from every pore, sad lights in her eyes even when she laughed. Oh, to wipe away that sadness, to give Celia the happiness that Carolyn had, the same sense of safety and serenity she gave to her daughter.
Jules chose that moment to appear at her door, his brisk knock the usual signal.
Dismissing her maid with a wave of one hand, she turned with a smile as her husband entered the chamber and came straight to her.
“It was a brilliant success, my sweet, but then, your affairs always are.” He bent, his hand gentle on her shoulder as he pressed a kiss upon her cheek. He smelled faintly of tobacco and brandy. So familiar, so beloved. It was still a miracle to her that they were married, that he loved her after so many years.
“If they are a success,” she said lightly, “it is all due to you.”
“To me?” Jules feigned amazement, and they both laughed. “Why would you say that, my love?”
“Because it is due to your generosity and kindness that I am able to spend so lavishly.”
“My darling, I would give my entire fortune to make you happy, and would give dear Caro anything, as you well know.”
“Yes, and you are so generous to my beloved Léonie’s daughter, just as you are to our own. For that, I can never thank you enough.”
“My dearest wife, I would be generous to a dozen of your orphaned relatives if it pleased you, but I genuinely like Celia. She’s a lovely young woman, though very sad.”
“Oh, you see it, too!” Jacqueline stared up at him. Short and balding, with luxurious side whiskers that he thought made his face seem leaner, Jules Leverton seemed to some as a genial aristocrat, but in fact he was a shrewd judge of character and a canny businessman. He had rescued his family’s failing fortunes from calamity, and never failed to help those he could. He was, Jacqueline thought, the most wonderful man she had ever known.
“Of course I see it,” Jules said softly. “Celia bears a great weight on her young shoulders. There’s more than sadness in her eyes. There’s something akin to dread that I’ve glimpsed on occasion. Do what you can for her, my dearest.”
“I will,” Jacqueline promised. “I will.”
And she would. She would do her best to learn what lay in Celia’s past that could make her fear the future.
8
Hyde Park dipped in hills and greenswards that were still bright with fading summer flowers. Braving the capricious weather, open carriages took advantage of the sunny day to fill the park’s roads.
Celia St. Clair blinked against the press of light in her eyes, and tugged at the brim of her fashionable bonnet to shade her face. She wore a bonnet of green satin lined with white; a full plume of snowy ostrich feathers curled in graceful dips on the crown. As the gleaming curricle wheeled swiftly down the pathway, feathers fluttered as if about to take wing and fly.
Colter eyed them with a lifted brow. “Enjoy the sun’s warmth while you can,” he said to the lofty plumes that covered Celia’s head and part of her face. “It will disappear soon enough.”
Her chin tilted upward, the feathers bobbing. “Such an optimist. Are you always so cheerful, my lord?”
“Not always. On occasion I’m quite surly.” Handling the reins of the spirited horses, he slid a glance toward her and saw the faintest smile on her mouth.
“If that is indeed true, be so kind as not to inflict your presence upon me at those dismal moments of choler,” she replied with a coolness that belied her amusement. Colter smiled his appreciation of her retort.
“Your lack of tolerance is shocking, Miss St. Clair.”
“I doubt that. You don’t seem to be a man who is easily shocked.”
“I could tell you some tales—”
“I’m sure you could. Please spare me.”
She turned her head slightly, a glance from green eyes that could alter from warm to frigid in an instant. A smile lingered at the corners of her mouth, a tempting curve that was inviting and rejecting at the same time.
Little baggage. He should kiss her again, if for no other reason than to prove to her how much she liked it. She may feign indifference but she hadn’t been indifferent the last time. And no damned ladies’ maid would keep him from it, so she needn’t have gone to the trouble of bringing one along.
The maid, a thin little thing with the look of a determined sparrow, clung to the sides of the curricle as if she feared being thrown out at any moment. He curbed a perverse impulse to increase his speed.
“Very well,” he said, handling the ribbons and horses with efficient ease as he deftly took a curve in the road. “Entertain me with lively tales of your own.”
“Really, I cannot imagine you would be interested in any tales I could tell, my lord.”
“I might surprise you. If you lack ideas, tell me about your home in Georgetown. You lived there for some time?”
“Yes.”
When she said nothing else, he glanced at her again. Her face was shadowed by the brim of her bonnet as she tilted her head downward, but her hands were tightly clenched around the velvet cords of the reticule she held in her lap. She vibrated with sudden tension.
“If you’d rather speak of something else, Miss St. Clair—”
Her head came up. “No. What would you like to know? And I was really born in Virginia. We moved to Georgetown when I was very small.”
“Then your parents are from Virginia, I presume.”
There was a brief hesitation before she said, “Yes. My father’s family owned land along the Chesapeake Bay.”
“So what brings you alone to England?”
She turned to stare at him, eyes boring into his face as if trying to decide what to say next. “How do you know I arrived alone, my lord? Because you saw me alone on the ship?”
“No, because your cousin hasn’t mentioned anyone else as a guest. A simple enough deduction, but I’m sure you’ll tell me if I’m wrong.”
“No, you aren’t wrong. My parents died some time ago, my father killed when his vessel was seized by a French warship. I’m the only member of my immediate family left.”
“I see.” There was no hint of emotion in her voice, only a calm recital of facts, yet her gaze on him was intent. He glanced back at the road. “And so you came to visit your mother’s relatives here. England has a lot to answer for, it seems, in colonizing America.”
When she shifted slightly, he caught a whiff of delicate scent. Verbena? He wasn’t certain. It was light, elusive, inviting—as alluring as her voice, a seductive blend of female innocence and wisdom borne in the husky, drawling tones of a Colonial. Enticing little chit.
“I bear no grudges. America won its independence in the end. A humiliating defeat for England, it seems.”
Amused, he said, “Perhaps just a concession instead of a victory. England has too many Colonies to waste far too much time on insurgents.”
“Yes, such as India, I presume. Yet oddly enough, it seems worth the expense, time and life to continue there.”
“India is proving to be more profitable and even less civilized, despite our best efforts.”
“Ah, the British are so aggressive.”
“Yes. You might keep that in mind should you ever plan a small revolution of your own.”
She gave him an arch look, eyes innocently wide.
“If memory serves, my lord, England didn’t do so well in the last great revolution with the American Colonies.”
“A slight case of miscalculation. We do learn from our mistakes, however.”
“Apparently there are lapses in memory, as it was not so very long ago that there was another war with America. It was in 1812 and didn’t end well for you then, either.”
“Touché, Miss St. Clair. I yield to the victorious Colonist.”
She laughed, a soft sound of amusement, genuine and contagious. “You yield so easily, my lord. I’m surprised. And a bit disappointed. I thought you a more worthy foe.”
“I am a worthy foe in more intimate matters, Miss St. Clair.” He smiled at her when she gave him a startled glance, and had the satisfaction of seeing color flood her cheeks.
It was only a matter of time. He’d give her today, by God, with her damned lady’s maid and chaperon sitting like a watchful cat in the boot of the curricle, but the next time he took her for a ride, it would be under his terms.
She was a mystery, an intrigue, a lovely, sensual female. He was developing a ferocious itch for her. It was damned inconvenient.
“America,” she said with a betraying tremor in her lovely lilting drawl, an obvious attempt to ease the tension between them, “is very different from England. It’s so vast. I think that’s what first strikes visitors. One can go afoot for months and not reach the distant shores. It’s so large, no road exists from one coast to the other. To reach Spanish California one must travel months by ship.”
Amused by her effort, he said, “I’ve been to Spanish California, but it was a long time ago, when I was barely out of Oxford. Now the United States and Spain have an ongoing quarrel with Mexico over the territory. It makes it inconvenient to visit.”
“Then describe it for me, since you’ve seen it.” Her glance at him was speculative. “I was told it’s a marvelous place with constant sunshine, soft winds and lush grass for miles and miles.”
“An apt description. A vast wilderness, but excellent for cattle and hermits.”
“That sounds a bit prejudicial.”
“It wasn’t what I expected but I wasn’t disappointed. I found California to be—a challenge. Wild. A place where a man’s past doesn’t matter, only his ability to survive.”
“You seem adept at survival.”
“So do you, Miss St. Clair.”
With a light shrug, she turned her head to gaze at the much tamer aspect of flower beds and tree-lined drive. He had the sense there was much she didn’t say.
Colter guided the horses more slowly along the curve of the path. It was more crowded in this part of the park, with curricles, landaus and horsemen exhibiting not only equestrian skill, but excellent horseflesh and lovely riding apparel. Nobility rubbed elbows with riffraff.
Madame Poirier, procurer of prostitutes, had several of her newest recruits decked out in all their finery and parading the park in a gleaming brougham with gilded harness and trappings. The ladybirds were near as lovely as the horses, and he recognized several of the men eyeing them appraisingly.
“Isn’t that Sir John?”
He followed Celia’s gaze and saw Harvey approach Madame Poirier’s carriage; sunlight gilded his hair with the same bright glints as the brass harness. An elegant horseman, the baronet rode a flashy bay from his father’s stables. Colter recognized it, remembered Baron Leawood at Tattersall’s purchasing the mare. He’d almost tried to outbid him, but decided against it. If Harvey was riding his father’s mounts, his own stable must be depleted. It was a matter of pride for a man to parade his own cattle through the park.
“Yes,” he said, “Harvey seems to be showing off his fine horsemanship.”
“And his fine horse as well as his diverse tastes.”
“Ah, do I detect jealousy?”
“Only of the horse, my lord. It’s a beautiful beast. I imagine such a lovely animal is quite costly.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it was. I was there when it was first shown at Tattersall’s. Do you ride, Miss St. Clair?”
There was a brief pause before she said, “Not well. I much prefer my riding to be done in a well-sprung landau.”
“Your riding instructors must be most distressed to hear it.”
She turned on her seat to face him. He felt the press of her knee against his thigh, a gentle nudge that sent a flash of fire through him. If it wasn’t for the watchful maid in the rear, he’d take Celia St. Clair to the nearest privacy he could find.
“What is it you want from me, my lord? A recitation of my qualities? My education? What I know and what I don’t know? Shall I confess all my secrets, or do you wish to continue trying to coax them out of me one by one?”
“Have you never heard of discretion?” He slanted her an amused glance, his brow lifted. Angry spots of color glowed on her high cheekbones, made her green eyes seem even brighter.
“Yes, I have, my lord. Have you?”
“Are you speaking of now, or of the night of your cousin’s ball? I seem to recall a lack of discretion on your part, as well.”
It was a telling reply. Her flush deepened and she looked away from him, staring at the tall sycamores that lined the drive. He focused on the horses, set their pace a bit slower as the well-oiled wheels of the curricle took a neat curve in the serpentine lane.
“Please be so good as to take me back to my cousin’s house, my lord.”
He’d been expecting the demand. “You’re not weary of my company already?”
“No. I—feel faint.”
“Ah. I see.”
He guided the curricle to a little-traveled lane that led around the lake the prince regent had insisted upon expanding. Swans floated serenely on the surface and ducks nested among reeds. Sunlight reflected on placid water as smooth as a mirror. A stone bench was screened by bushes.
It took just a moment to set the brake and climb down from the seat, another moment to move to the other side of the curricle and reach in for Celia. She made a sound of protest as he put his hands on her waist and lifted her down. He turned to the wide-eyed maid. “Stay here. If you thrash about, the horses might bolt.”
A muffled shriek was quickly swallowed as she gripped the side of the curricle with both hands and held tightly.
“Really, my lord,” Celia said coldly, “this is not at all necessary.”
“If you’re faint, you should lie down.” He ignored her resistance as he escorted her with an arm behind her back to the stone bench. She moved stiffly. The muscles beneath his hand contracted in a shudder as he slid his arm more securely around her waist.
“Here,” he said with a wicked smile. “Let me help you onto the bench since you’re so faint.”
He lifted her effortlessly into his arms, held her a long moment over the stone seat, then slowly lowered her until she was in a reclining position with her feet on the ground.
“Let go of me at once,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “or I’ll scream for help!”
“From that timid bird of a maid? She’d be of little help to anyone. Be still. If anyone should notice us, why give them something to gossip about? A simple conversation by the lake is much different from an amorous struggle that could so easily be misinterpreted, I’d think.”
“You are a rogue, sir!” Her eyes narrowed angrily, and she sat up, looking up at him as he propped a boot on the seat of the bench and leaned an arm on his knee. It brought him closer to her, a posture meant to intimidate.
“That’s better, Miss St. Clair.”
“How long do you intend to continue this farce?”
“As long as it takes.”
“As long as it takes for what to happen?” She snapped open a fan, then closed it again, ivory spindles a soft click of sound. “If you intend to ravish me, either do it or take me home. I wish an end to this afternoon.”
He slid a finger along the curve of her shoulder up to her jawline, a light caress that summoned a shiver from her.
“I think,” he said softly, “that you’re in a hurry to be ravished. Ah-ah—slapping won’t do anything but annoy me. It certainly won’t stop me if I don’t want to be stopped.”
“A pity my fencing master did not warn me to always carry a saber,” she snapped.
“Fencing? How modern of you. Are you expert, or is it on a level with your riding ability?”
“You would make an excellent foil, my lord. Too bad you aren’t available as a target.”
“And it’s too bad that you’re not being honest with me or with yourself. I don’t remember that you fought me this hard the last time we were alone. In fact, I seem to recall you kissing me back.”
Her face flamed. Her gaze slipped from his. “You have a vivid imagination, sir.”
“No, I’m much too pragmatic to waste time imagining kisses. I prefer—” he paused, dragged a fingertip along the curve of her jawline, watched a pulse beat madly in the hollow of her throat “—the real to the imagined,” he ended softly, and bent to kiss her.
His finger beneath her chin held her in a light grip, lifted her face slightly to his. He heard her quick inhalation just before his mouth covered her half-open lips.
Warm, sweet, tempting, she made no effort to pull away, but allowed him to kiss her. This time, there was no response, no participation. She offered no resistance, but no reaction. He slid an arm behind her back to hold her.
“It won’t work,” he said against her mouth.
Bringing her hands up between them, she balled them into fists and wedged some distance between their bodies. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a voice that held only a slight quiver.
“Oh, you do.” He tucked a curl back beneath the sash of her bonnet, let his hand linger on the delicate whorl of her ear, a slight feathery brush of his finger over the seashell curves that summoned a shudder from her. He smiled. “Oh, yes, you most certainly know what I’m talking about. This pretense that you don’t want me to kiss you is a waste of time at best, bad acting at the worst.”
She relaxed slightly, let his arm bear her weight as she looked up into his eyes. “You have a marvelous opinion of your effect on females, I see. How pitiful that is for you. Do you truly think that all you have to do is kiss a woman and she will fall into your arms? Ignore her station in life, her reputation, her family? I think you’re far too accustomed to your little actresses who must use the few advantages life has given them to get ahead. They must suffer the attentions of arrogant men just to survive. I, however, have other alternatives. Release me at once, or I will scream so loudly everyone in this park will come to my rescue.”
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