“I would prefer you not to speak at all,” she said, pulling her fingers away from his hand. “You do not desire me, you want only your petty revenge.”
“You are really quite wrong. I will be pleased to prove that to you.”
“I do not want you to prove anything, Mr. Saxton. I only want you to leave me alone and leave London.”
He stroked his fingertips over her open palm. “Odd,” he said thoughtfully, gazing into her eyes, “you seem to tremble when I touch you.”
Giana snatched her hand away. “Please,” she whispered.
“Please what, my dear? Dare I guess?”
“I wish you would take yourself to Hell.”
“When next I kiss you, Giana, I would appreciate your leaving off the violence. My shin still aches. I suppose I should be grateful that you did not kick me elsewhere.”
She frowned at him, helpless to dampen his good humor, and fell into a brooding silence. She was terribly aware of how close he was standing at casual ease beside her. Who is there to know or care if I give my virginity to him? I am twenty-one, no longer a silly schoolgirl. She started, aghast at herself. Damn him.
“I wish you would stop teasing me,” she said aloud. “And you are so damned big, I cannot see past you.”
He stepped behind her and gently drew her back against him. “Is this better?”
She imagined her naked hips pressed against his belly, and blanched at the shiver of pleasure it brought her. “It is not.” She turned crimson at the interested stares of their fellow passengers.
“Then you will have to tell me what you like, my dear,” he said easily, letting her go. “A man’s pleasure is very much bound to his woman’s. Oh, I forgot to tell you. We will be leaving Friday by train to Folkestone. I have procured us a lovely house at the strand. Do make whatever arrangements you must with your dear mother.”
To Giana’s surprise, her mother was awaiting her downstairs, beautifully gowned. “The duke,” she said, smiling, “is to join us again for dinner. He was disappointed you were not here last night, and insisted upon seeing you, en famille.”
“That is nice,” Giana said, her voice abstracted.
Aurora watched her daughter jerk off her gloves and pace about like the tigers at the exhibition. “I trust you enjoyed your outing with Mr. Saxton,” she said. “Where did you go?”
“No, I did not, and it was Kew Gardens.”
“Then why did you agree to see him again? And why Kew Gardens? Surely there are more amusing places for a visitor in London, particularly a gentleman.”
“He likes flowers,” she said flatly. “When is the duke expected?”
“Soon. Incidentally, Giana, Thomas visited me this afternoon, filled with praises for you. He said he had never seen you so engaged.”
“The merger is important,” Giana said. “And I have no intention of giving that man anything.”
“Well, that is certainly good business.”
“Mother, I have decided to leave London for a while. A school friend of mine has invited me to Folkestone.”
“I see,” Aurora said, not seeing at all. “When do you intend to leave?”
“On Friday afternoon.”
“And your return?”
“I am not quite certain.”
“And your friend’s name? In case I need to get in touch with you.”
“Blakeson,” Giana said, the gardener’s name at Kew Gardens. “The Edward Blakesons. I will be met at the station in Folkestone and do not know their address.”
“Do you wish Abigail to accompany you?”