Page 54 of His Wicked Charm

“I have no intention of suffering.”

“I am talking about your precious reputation—you know, that thing you were so worried about a couple of hours ago.”

Lilah wanted to lash out, toss back some withering retort, but unfortunately Con’s barb had hit the mark. She had been a complete hypocrite, whining about her aunt causing a scandal and a few minutes later acting like a...a hussy. The moment a man kissed her, apparently she turned to jelly. “I am a bit surprised to find you so concerned about propriety.”

“I don’t give a damn about propriety, and you know it.” He swung off the bed—obviously he had no qualms about his nudity—and began to pick up his clothes. Back turned to her as he yanked on his trousers, he said roughly, “I just don’t want to see you hurt.”

It was too late for that, Lilah thought. But she had brought it on herself. She had been willful and reckless, and she wanted more than anything to burst into tears. But she wasn’t about to let him see that her spirit was bruised. She was thankful that he wasn’t looking at her. “This will doubtless surprise you, but I don’t want to marry you any more than you want to marry me.”

“Less, I’d say, since you’re turning down my proposal.”

“And I won’t be hurt unless you plan to bruit this about to your cronies.”

“Lilah!” Con swung around indignantly, his fingers stilled in the process of refastening his shirt. “I would never! How can you even think that?” His temper was well up now, which, really, Lilah preferred to that regret that had sat so incongruously on his face earlier.

“I didn’t think you would. I was simply pointing out that no one will talk about it because no one will know.”

“And what if you’re pregnant?”

Lilah blushed at his blunt words and looked away. “Well, of course, then it would be a different matter. It would be necessary for us to—to—”

“Sacrifice ourselves?” he asked sarcastically.

“Don’t you dare!” Lilah flared, almost dropping her concealing dustcover in her anger. “Don’t you dare pretend that you are a wounded party here. As if you wanted to marry me. You would be miserable if I had said yes. You’re glad not to marry me. You’re just pouting because I don’t want to marry you either.”

He glared at her for a moment, jaw clenched, then let out an explosive sigh and dropped down onto a chair to pull on his boots. Giving an extra—and in Lilah’s opinion, entirely unnecessary—stomp to fit his feet into them, he stood up and began to pick up Lilah’s clothes. It put a strange lump in her throat to see his hands holding her things.

“Here,” he said in a far more conciliatory tone, setting her clothes on the bed beside her. “You’re right of course. You are being rational. We would never suit. I just... I want you to know that I am sorry.” He raised his head and looked into her eyes. “I didn’t intend for this to happen. I didn’t set out to seduce you. And I truly regret if I have caused you pain or regret.”

“I know.” It was impossible not to believe Con. Impossible not to like him. But it was equally impossible to admit that she was so brazen that she didn’t even regret what they had done. “I am a grown woman, Con. I am responsible for what I do.”

He nodded. “I...um, I shall go search another room.”

“Very well. It’s... I think it’s best if I go home now.”

* * *

WELL, HE’D CERTAINLY mucked that up, Con thought as he strode down the corridor. What in the hell was the matter with him? Yes, he had always been a bit impulsive, but he’d never before been so seemingly unable to control himself. Certainly never before had his lovemaking made a woman cry.

His stomach twisted as he remembered turning to look at her, feeling so deeply, amazingly replete, and saw that she was in tears. Had he physically hurt her? Of course, how was it any better if her tears had been those of remorse and regret?

Con rubbed his hands over his face now, feeling again the bite of guilt. Whatever Lilah said, she was far too naive to have really known what she was getting into. Even though she had flung herself into his arms and kissed him, he had taken advantage of her. Deep down, he’d known he was taking advantage. He shouldn’t have accepted her “yes” as consent.

Con reached the end of the hallway, so he turned into the last room and went through the motions of searching it for hiding places, though at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to care about finding some benighted key. He was too busy brooding over Lilah.

She’d been most forgiving about it—which did not really seem like Lilah at all. He would have expected —if he had thought about it—that she would make him pay for breaking so cardinal a rule. Worse, for tempting her into breaking a rule. Truthfully, he wished she had. It would have been far easier to take if she had rung a peal over his head or taken a swing at him.

She’d been so reasonable. So calm and dispassionate. The thing that had apparently roused her ire had been his offering to marry her—and where was the sense in that? While he would not classify his irritation as “pouting,” as Lilah had termed it, he had to admit it had stung a bit when she’d said she didn’t want to marry him.

She was right; he didn’t want to marry her either, but she needn’t have been so bloody adamant about it. It wasn’t as if he were some penniless mountebank. Or some mad relative who’d been hidden away in the attic. He was generally considered something of a catch. He had ample money, and he was the son of a duke. And he had only to look at Alex to know that he wasn’t bad-looking. You’d think a woman who was so rational, so respectful of social mores, would be agreeable to making an advantageous marriage.

But oh, no, marrying him was apparently horrifying and to be done only in the most extreme emergency. Of course, to be reasonable, what woman would want to marry a man whose lovemaking reduced her to tears?

Why had she cried? What had he done? Until that moment, he would have sworn that Lilah had been as deep in the throes of passion as he. The way she had kissed him, touched him. He thought of the way her hands had slid beneath his waistcoat.

Con braced his hands on the mantel and stared down at the cold fireplace, his search forgotten. The devil of it was he was aching for her all over again. It seemed the bitterest irony that he should feel this way about Lilah Holcutt.

Why was it that her cool, calm, so carefully polite face set him on fire? That when she looked at him in her disapproving way, he could think of nothing but turning that look into passion? That he couldn’t look at her without wanting to take down that mass of bright hair and bury his face in it?