Page 11 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

Except that she looked like she might crack. Like she was made of glass under the wet cloak and the tangled hair, the tip of her nose turning red.

Keir stalked to the grate and crouched in front of it, feeding coal into the fire basket until the sleeping embers caught. The flickering light caught on the firedogs, shaped like crouched terriers ready to spring into motion. When he stood again, Sybil was fumbling with the ties to her sodden cloak, fingers moving numbly. He cursed and nudged her hands aside with far more gentleness than his expression implied.

“I can do it.” Her teeth clacked together.

He didn’t reply, only swept her up in his arms, for the second time that night, and carried her to a chair near the fire, tucking her against his chest. She laid her cheek against him, fine tremors working through her. “This is very unseemly.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew what seemly was,” he said, but he tightened his arms round her in direct contradiction to everything he knew about himself. Unseemly did not begin to cover it. This was Sybil. In his arms. Fucking finally. That was always the first thought, no matter if it had been mere moments or months: fucking finally.

“I know what boring is, Lord Blackburn,” she returned, just as drily.

“Lord Blackburn, is it?” he asked, inwardly calming when hints of her usual nettlesome nature peeked through. “So formal. And here I thought we were betrothed.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You’re cross.”

“I’m confused.”

“Cross.”

“I can be both.”

“You have every right to be,” she admitted. “I am warm now.” She wriggled, and he very nearly did growl.

“Stay still.” He did not release her even though he should. Her cheeks were still too pale. She was too perfectly soft against him. “Your lips are blue.”

He was being careful, that was all.

“Oh.” Her voice was small, nearly a sigh. If he wasn’t mistaken, she nuzzled against him. It made him feel… Never mind. “You are very warm.”

“Yes.”

“It’s nice.”

She smelled like rain and strong tea, and it was also nice.

Very nice.

Too nice.

“I cannot marry you, Miss Taunton.” He felt compelled to say it out loud. Like an ass.

A complete and absolute ass.

She rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

He paused, frowned. Then wondered why he was frowning. “Oh?”

“I didn’t mean to cause you trouble.”

He snorted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, offended.

“Sybil, you are the very definition of trouble.”

Why had it sounded like a compliment, even to his own astounded ears? He was usually better at hiding his true feelings for her. He’d had years of practice, after all. It could not unravel because he was finally holding her to his chest, enveloped in the sweet-spicy rosemary scent of her hair, undistracted by her soft thighs or soft sighs or his own desperate need to devour her from head to toe.

“I suppose I am,” she said, suddenly unbothered. “To someone like you, most definitely.”