Page 71 of To Steal a Kiss

Oh, good Lord.

The day had only needed that.

The heat of his palm burned through the fine muslin of her summer gown, branding her as her heart skipped and her breath hitched. Before she could exclaim or move back, he removed his hand, returning it to the heavy silver-topped cane he carried.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, frustrated to discover her voice unsteady.

One pale, blond eyebrow rose just a little. “I live here,” he said, with a somewhat sardonic curve to his mouth. “If I may return the question?” he said, an enquiring note to his voice, though there was a glint in his eyes that was calculating, disturbing.

His attention drifted to her neck and the little trickles of water sliding over her skin. Matilda blushed, aware of the quality of his gaze as he followed the trail of a droplet down her throat.

“I….” She began and then stopped. Really, she ought to have some scathing comment for the man, some insult or rejoinder to remind him of her animosity, but she was too tired. Sorrow and fear for the future had eaten away at the backbone on which she so prided herself. “I saw the green,” she said, a little startled at the exhaustion in her voice. “And I… I just wanted….”

She shook her head and gave an uneven laugh. Good God, what was she thinking? Perhaps she’d cry on his shoulder next.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, reminding herself of just who she was speaking with. “Forgive me for trespassing. I should certainly not have done so if I’d known you lived here.”

With relief, she heard the words sound as cool and indifferent as they ought to be but, before she could leave, the marquess had reached out and caught her arm, stilling her.

Matilda gasped and looked down at the elegant gloved fingers resting upon her wrist.

“It’s a public place, you cannot trespass.” He watched her a moment longer. “You’ve been crying,” he said.

There was neither sympathy nor satisfaction in his tone, more a statement of fact.

Damn him. She would not allow him to know of her private feelings, her weaknesses.

Not him.

“Weddings always make me cry,” she said brightly. Nate would want news of their marriage to spread; she may as well help things along. “My brother,” she added before he could ask. “He married Miss Dowding this morning. It was very romantic.”

Montagu said nothing, just continued scrutinising her, those strange grey eyes so intent that she felt they could look inside her, through her. He could find his way beneath her skin and unearth her every secret, her every weakness, all of her.

His hand remained at her wrist, though she’d made no move to pull away from him. Her skin burned beneath those long fingers, even though her spencer and his gloves separated his touch from her flesh. She felt seared by it.

“Good for her,” he said at length. “And what of you?”

Matilda stiffened, not wanting to have this conversation with anyone whilst her emotions were still so raw, but least of all him. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You know precisely what I mean,” he said, the words clipped and a little annoyed at her deliberate prevarication. “Where will you go? You’ll not want to live with a happy couple.”

“Good heavens, no,” she said, striving to keep her tone light and amused when all she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and sob. “I have that well in hand, though, I assure you. Please don’t trouble yourself.”

She managed to sneer a little, knowing damn well he didn’t care a farthing for her troubles.

“I could help you,” he said, his voice lower now, a look in his eyes that made her heart react with anticipation of his next words. “I could give you anything you ever desired.”

She knew what he meant at once, and he knew she understood.

He would make her his mistress.

Fury burned within her.

To her eternal relief, anger chased away the sadness and the self-pity, and she welcomed it, welcomed the familiar heat of rage that this man always brought her. Strange, how such a cold man could make her burn with anger. She wanted to poke at the façade of the perfect gentleman with a sharp stick. Montagu was famous for never, ever, losing his temper. He never raised his voice, never showed emotion of any kind. A cold bastard, it was said of him in awed tones.

It was irresistible, the desire to goad him into a reaction.

Matilda took a step closer to him, so close that their bodies almost touched, she could kiss him if she wanted to. Instead she stared into his eyes, calm now as the anger steadied her.