“As though I could forget that you threw me over. But I won’t beat you.”
She nodded crisply. She knew he wouldn’t have, but she was glad he didn’t leave it hanging over her head as a threat. Then she thought of another point. “And I will not do everything you ask outside of your bed. Inside your bed is enough.”
That seemed to break his patience. He wrapped his fist in her hair, winding it until she had to bend toward his lips. “You’re not in a position to negotiate,” he said.
Then he kissed her. Or rather, took her.
As a boy, he’d worshipped her.
As a man, he possessed her.
His fist held her in place. His other arm caught around her waist, making his claim unmistakable. She sighed as she opened her mouth to him. He swallowed her sigh and pulled her closer, until she was crushed against him. Acres of brocade still protected her, but beneath that armor she quivered. The ache she’d nursed for a decade exploded into a demand so sharp, so potent, that she couldn’t stay cold and passionless despite her plans.
She’d obsessed over him for ten years. She’d hated him for ten minutes. The coldly rational Ellie who had grown up after his departure was shrieking at her to stop — to remember her dignity, if nothing else.
But that voice echoed her father’s. You will not embarrass your family with that peasant, Elinor.
She moaned against Nick’s mouth. His kiss was a fire that could, just maybe, burn away all her thoughts. She met his tongue eagerly, breathed through her nose, and hoped the heat and air were enough to make herself ignite.
Ultimately, though, her wardrobe thwarted her efforts to forget. When his hand dropped to her bodice, he couldn’t unlace her — her costume was too elaborate, and her maid had sewn her into it to achieve a perfect fit.
She moved to straddle him. “There are other ways,” she murmured, reaching for the buttons that would undo his breeches.
He grabbed her hand. “I’m aware, love. But shouldn’t I get to see what I bargained for?”
Damn him. He wouldn’t let her forget. She sat back, and he winced as she placed weight on his knees. “You’ll have four months — I’m sure you’ll get around to ogling my breasts some other night.”
“Every night.”
The coldly rational Ellie who had grown up without him wanted to gut him.
The Ellie who had missed him forever wanted to shred her dress just to feel his gaze on her skin.
Her better half won that round. She rolled off him before he could grab for her, standing beside him and smoothing her skirts as though she’d come off a horse rather than a thwarted lover.
“Shall we postpone our…union, then? You cannot remove this dress without a maid. And anyway, you agreed to four months — but the dates you gave me are four months and two days. I won’t be cheated any more than I already have been by the Claiborne men.”
Nick leaned up. She stepped back in case he tried to reach for her again. Her slippers crunched over broken glass and she stepped to the side, glad she still had her shoes.
He might have come after her, but the sound of glass stopped him. He looked down at her feet, then back up to her face. She knew she was flushed — he always brought out a flush in her, and it was worse now that he was being an utter blackguard. But perhaps that flush saved her — made him take pity on her, even if she’d never asked for anyone’s pity.
“Very well. We’ll start on the thirteenth. Four months, Ellie. Enjoy tomorrow — you won’t get another reprieve.”
He said it the way a monarch might condemn a traitor. Four months.
“You will rot in hell for this, Nicholas Claiborne.”
“I know.”
She took the key and left. She briefly considered using it to lock him in, but she didn’t have time for petty pleasures. She tossed it on the carpet instead, and admired her own restraint when she returned to the ballroom rather than searching the house for a gun.
Nick could take his revenge. Knowing her traitorous heart, she might even enjoy it.
But Ellie would keep her freedom — no matter what it cost her to win it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, Ellie’s maid rummaged through the pots and boxes atop Ellie’s dressing table. “Perhaps the white lead, my lady,” Lucia said. She held up a small porcelain vessel. “Nothing else will conceal the