23
Benedick froze in sheer astonishment, staring at her as if she’d suddenly grown two heads. She was looking entirely rational, smiling up at him from her divan like a queen receiving visitors, and for a moment he couldn’t move.
“You’re out of your mind,” he said finally. “You’re the last woman in the world I’d take as a mistress.”
There was a flicker in her dark blue eyes, one he couldn’t read, but her calm was unimpaired. “That’s hardly flattering.”
“I wasn’t intending to flatter you. Merely to tell you the truth. I have no interest in having any mistress, least of all you.”
“I’m hardly an innocent, Lord Rohan. I know men’s bodies, and I recognize desire. You can hardly convince me that you don’t want me.” There was only the slightest note of strain in her voice, and he suddenly realized what that flicker was. Beneath her self-assurance was a very real doubt, and he knew that, strong as she was, he could crush her. Ensure that she never dared offer herself to any man ever again.
It should have been tempting. He’d come to the unhappy conclusion that he didn’t want her bedding anyone else, and he knew better than to sleep with her himself. But he couldn’t be that cruel.
“I do not want a mistress,” he said again in a steadier voice. “And if I did, I would be a very bad choice for you. I’m not particularly kind or thoughtful, and we annoy each other, even if you try to pretend we don’t.”
“We don’t…” she began, but he interrupted her.
“Well, you annoy me. You’re a wealthy, beautiful widow, and you could take your pick of half the men here. Look at the way they swarmed around your indecent dress tonight,” he said in a tight voice. “If you wish to have an affaire, choose one of them.” And I’ll break his legs, he thought savagely.
He didn’t believe her offer of an affaire for one moment. She’d said over and over again that she had no interest in men, and while he had no false modesty about his own charms, a furtive climax was not likely to change her mind. She was probably simply looking for a way to get back in the hunt, and he was damned if he’d give in, no matter what delicious bait she dangled in front of him.
Her flicker of fear was gone. “I don’t want anyone else. I don’t trust them.”
His amazement was real. “And you trust me?” He stared at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t possibly.”
“Well, perhaps saying I trust you is going a little too far. But I trust you to know what you’re doing in the bedroom. I’ve had an old, infirm man and a clumsy, selfish young one. The gaggle assure me that you’re a remarkable lover, and it seemed only reasonable to start with you. I’ve decided that I might not be cut out for celibacy after all, and if I wish to embark on a series of affaires I want to make certain I’ll find them enjoyable.” She looked up at him, her voice and face as calm as if she were ordering her menus for the week, and continued ingenuously, “I like your kisses. And you’re remarkably good at touching. So I choose you.”
“No. Never in this lifetime.”
She stared at him. “Why not?”
“Because I…because I…it’s not a good idea,” he said, knowing his excuse was lame. Indeed, he wasn’t quite sure why he was resisting so fiercely. Bedding her would at least distract her and he could still finish his investigation on his own. And he wanted her so damned badly his hands shook with it.
And the longer he stayed the more tempted he was. “No,” he said again, his voice flat and implacable. “You’re a lovely, tempting woman, but you’re not the kind of woman I want.”
Without another word he left her, afraid to look back.
She couldn’t very well burst into tears in the middle of a ball, Melisande thought calmly. She’d been an idiot to spring her plan on him when they were surrounded by people. When they were alone he tended to touch her, whether he said he wanted to or not. She should have waited until he came to see her.
Except he wouldn’t come. He considered himself well rid of her, and there was no way she was going to leave the Heavenly Host up to him. He’d extricate his brother and consider the job done.
But it didn’t seem right. The gaggle had once more come up with a stunning gown for her to wear, cobbled together from three of her old ones. It was a rush job, and a good thing she couldn’t dance, because the seams would never have held, but for reclining gracefully it would do very well, indeed. And she’d waited for Rohan to make his appearance.
He was so late she was almost afraid he wouldn’t come at all, destroying her plan and her hard-won confidence. Men had surrounded her, Harry Merton had flirted delightfully, and she told herself she should forget about Rohan entirely, when suddenly he had appeared, tall and forbidding, with his dark cat’s eyes and high cheekbones. He was furious with her, she realized as he stalked toward her. That was as good a start as any.
She probably should have calmed him down first before springing her plan on him. She knew very well he didn’t wish to get involved with her, though she couldn’t discern why. It wasn’t as if anyone would think he’d compromised her.
She glanced over at him speculatively. He was talking with Harry Merton now, his saturnine face amused, and despite Emma’s warning she mentally compared the two men. Mr. Merton was by far the more traditionally handsome. A bit shorter than Rohan, he had a square, muscular build that was possibly more pleasing than Rohan’s lean, elegant length. His riotous curls, his sunny smile, his flattering eyes matched his charming, shallow nature. He was at such odds with Rohan’s intense gaze and cynical visage that it made him the obvious choice for her first official affaire. And yet he faded into obscurity standing next to Benedick.
Benedick. It should have felt strange to think of him by his Christian name. Instead it felt oddly right.
A servant was hovering close at hand, and she signaled to him. If she were the kind of woman who let setbacks affect her, then she would have curled up in a ball years ago and shut out the world. So Viscount Rohan insisted she was the last woman in the world he’d have an affaire with?
It was time to show him otherwise.