Those were the words she should have used three years ago. He would have bedded her, given her every luxury. He would have drained every drop of goodness from her innocent body, ridding himself of the deep ache he had long since suppressed.
“You want me to make you my mistress?”
“Of course not.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “No man shall ever put his hands on me again.”
Now there was a challenge.
One too tempting to resist.
“But for my own purposes, I will have society believe we are lovers,” she continued. “During which time you will help me discover who wants me dead.”
“I’m a scoundrel who lives life to excess, not a Bow Street runner turned enquiry agent.” Then again, the marquis would be disappointed to hear Damian kept company with such a notorious widow. That was worth the effort alone.
“And I was an actress, not a surgeon or seamstress.”
“Of that, I am aware. I still bear the evidence of your inferior sewing skills.” Though women loved his jagged scar.
“You would have died,” she countered.
“A blessing some might say.”
The widow glared. “You may wave your indifference like a celebratory flag, but I know honour flows in your blood.”
With his defences already raised, he wanted to prove her wrong. He hated that she knew something about him. Something real. Something true.
Damian plastered a sinful grin, and in the husky voice of a skilled seducer said, “Lust is the only thing flowing in my veins, Widow. Perhaps you might tempt me to accept if you sweetened the deal.”
She did not smile or mock him.
She did something far worse.
Pity flashed in her eyes. “Your mother would be ashamed of you,” she said, and the words hit harder than any punch.
“You called to her in the alley, and she answered your prayers. She sent me to save you. You held her cross, and you made a vow. A solemn promise. And in Maria’s name, I hold you to it now.”
Maria!
Damian swallowed hard. “You remembered her name.”
When the widow attacked, she cut to the bone.
“You gave me her most treasured possession. How could I ever forget?”
The ache in his heart returned. Giving her the cross was a mistake. With every passing day, he’d grown to regret his rash decision.
“I trust the money bought you some comfort.” Had she used the funds to buy new boots, dresses, more books? “My mother would have given you everything she owned in gratitude for saving her son.”
No one would love him that much again.
A weak smile touched the widow’s lips though it in no way reminded him of the angel who had slept peacefully in his arms in bed. “The necklace brought me more comfort than you could ever know.”
Wycliff nodded as he silently accepted his fate, accepted that this woman knew how to read his thoughts, knew how to press his back against the wall and cut off all means of escape.
Releasing a weary sigh, he said, “If I am to save your life, Widow, I need to know everything about your situation. I want to know every intimate detail. No lies.”
She raised her chin and inhaled deeply as her eyes misted. “You have seen me stripped to the bone, Mr Wycliff. You have seen my truth. Other than the blackguard who created them, you’re the only man ever to gaze upon my scars.”
For some reason, the thought pleased him.