Page 73 of Dare to be Wicked

The words escaped him before he could stop them, before he could crush them and force them back down into the darkness. That was his brother’s question to ask, not his, and there had been too much emotion there, the words revealing too much. She might… she might think....

She turned sharply towards him, her beautiful eyes alight with a question he wanted to answer but could not, but the movement seemed to unbalance her, and she swayed.

He moved, sweeping her up into his arms as he had longed to do from the first and, good Lord, she weighed nothing at all. She fit against him so perfectly, her hand a fist on the lapel of his coat as she stared up at him in astonishment.

“You m-must put me down,” she said, a sunrise blush of colour at her cheeks, upon skin as fine and pale as porcelain.

Nic shook his head. He could not speak, did not dare. He could not even look at her, certain he would give into the overwhelming desire to steal a kiss if he did. Instead he carried her back towards the house. What the devil was she doing out here alone? Was no one taking care of her? What were her family thinking? Did no one look after her as they ought? Instinct demanded he take her back to the carriage and drive away with her and never come back, but that was madness. He was not mad. He was not uncivilised either, not anymore.

“Put me down, sir.”

He ignored her. His heart was beating too fast, panic and fear competing for dominance in his heart. What if he’d not been here, what if she’d fainted? They ought never to let her out of their sight. They ought to fetch a doctor. Dr Archambeau ought to have stayed longer. Why had the devil left when she was still so frail, so ill? She needed caring for, she needed—

“I can walk!” she protested.

Her hand was still fisted upon his lapel, against his chest and he was desperately aware of it there, close to his heart. The ridiculous organ seemed to be trying to get even closer, beating almost out from behind his ribs. Nic’s jaw felt too tight and he could not open his mouth. His chest was a snarl of emotion that he did not know what to do with, had no experience of.

“Mr Demarteau.”

That clipped English voice again, speaking his name in that delicious way, like a governess. He experienced a savage desire for her to scold him. Well, she’d have to do better than that if she wanted him to put her down. Someone had to take care of her.

He walked on.

“Nic.”

His breath caught and he hesitated, chest heaving. He dared to look down at her to see something soft and understanding in her eyes.

“I was just dizzy for a moment. Do not worry so. I know I have lost weight, but I am not so frail as I look, I assure you.”

“You would have fallen. You’re too weak, there’s nothing of you,” he ground out. “Don’t they feed you? What did the doctor say? Isn’t anyone—”

The words stopped as she raised her hand to his cheek. His breath caught in his throat, at the impossibility of it, that she would touch him, voluntarily, and with such tenderness. Though she wore a fine silk glove, the contact seared him, branded him as hers. Despite himself he closed his eyes, savouring the moment as her thumb moved gently over his skin. Oh God, if she knew… if she had the slightest idea what her touch did to him, she would not give away her caresses so easily.

“I am well,” she said gently. “Now put me down before someone sees.”

He did not want to. Every instinct rebelled against the idea, but he could not resist the gentle command. Nic set her down as carefully as if she were made of spun glass, and she smiled at him. Inwardly he cursed her for it, for tying his heart up into a tighter knot, for binding him to her so inextricably.

“I must go back to the house before they worry for me. Lottie and Cassius got married this morning, and the breakfast will begin shortly.”

She smiled at the outrage in his eyes.

“I’m happy for them. Cassius was right, we would never have suited.”

Nic could say nothing. If he tried, he’d say something ridiculous and make a fool of himself and then she’d know and she’d pity him or be kind to him and… and he’d rather die.

“Did you send me all those lovely flowers?” she asked.

To his horror, he felt heat prickle down his spine, his face growing hot at her having guessed. Him. Of all men. Blushing? Good God, he was in a world of trouble, but he was damned if he’d confirm her suspicions. Instead he turned away, forcing himself to leave her. She was safe now, close enough to the house.

“Will you come and see me again?” she called after him.

Nic ground to a halt, hardly daring to believe she had asked him—asked him—to come to her again. Was she out of her mind? But she had asked him.

No.

No.

Too dangerous.