Page 102 of Rules for Ruin

“If either of them lay a hand on you, I’ll kill them.”

A thrill went through her. Good gracious, he meant it. He was prepared to dispatch anyone who dared touch her. It was overbearingly protective. Indeed, it bordered on primitive. She should be appalled by the notion. She was a strong, independent lady, fully capable of protecting herself. Even so…

“That’s very flattering,” she managed. “But you needn’t contemplate such a course.”

His thumb pressed her chin, still holding her fast. He looked into her eyes, more serious than she’d ever seen him. “I found you,” he said gruffly. “I’ve no intention of losing you.”

Her heart thumped heavily. “You won’t.”

“Then promise me that you’ll give up.”

Effie would have loved to set his mind at ease. To tell him she would cease pursuing Compton, and shun all risk of danger. But it wasn’t true. It wasn’t her.

“I can’t promise,” she said. “More depends on my success than the passage of a married women’s property bill. There’s Franc—our life together—our entire future. If I fail, I shall have no money for a home of our own.”

His eyes searched hers with sudden calculation. “She’s offered you money?”

Effie couldn’t tell if he was shocked by the fact. Indeed, she couldn’t tell what he was thinking any longer at all. His face had gone peculiarly blank.

“How much?” he asked.

She hesitated to answer. She didn’t like revealing her less honorable motivations. It was one thing to risk her life and reputation for the greater good of women. It was quite another to do it for material gain.

“Enough to gain my independence,” she admitted grudgingly. “I shall get to keep all my clothes as well. The entire wardrobe that was made for me in Paris. I could never in my life afford such a luxury on my own. Without it—”

“I can buy you a new wardrobe,” he said.

She stared at him, startled into silence.

“Gowns, jewels, anything.”

She shook her head. “Gabriel…”

His hand lifted to cradle her cheek. “If that’s all you desire, then let me give it to you,” he said recklessly. “Fine clothes. A comfortable house. A coach-and-four if you want it.”

Her heartbeat quickened, even as her stomach sank at the implication. “In exchange for what?”

“For being mine,” he said.

She exhaled an uneven breath. She hated that she was tempted. “I don’t want to be kept by someone. Not even you.”

“We’ll keep each other. Help each other.”

“How?”

“The Rookery. There are plenty of women there whose lives you can make better. We’ll work to reform it. You have opinions, ideas. I’ll listen to you. Take your advice. We can reside in Sloane Street. You said you thought the house fine. It can be yours. Ours.”

“And I’ll be your…what?” She didn’t dare say the word mistress; the prospect brought nothing but pain.

He brushed his thumb over the slope of her cheek. His voice deepened. “You’ll be my love.”

Her heart ached with longing. “Your love.”

“That surprises you?”

“No.”

“It offends you?”