‘I’m sorry you lost your brother, and I’m sorry you’re facing political challenges, but that doesn’t mean you just give up.’
‘I’m not a quitter!’ she denied hotly. ‘I’m not giving up. I’m giving in. There’s a difference.’
‘I don’t see that.’
‘You don’t have to. And I’m sorry if asking you to marry me last night made you think that you have the right to question me. In hindsight, the whole fake engagement idea was a mistake. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. I was desperate for an alternative but now I don’t need one. If by marrying Lord Richton I can ease the political tension between our two countries, and prevent more violence, then I’ll consider that a win.’
He saw the line of her throat move as she swallowed. She was putting on a brave face but he’d bet that she wanted to marry Richton about as much as a person wanted a root canal. She was just too nice to say it. Too nice to demand her due. And that bothered him. Almost as much as it bothered him to imagine Alec Richton putting his hands on her. His mouth.
‘Have you even met Richton?’ he grated.
‘Of course.’
‘Have you kissed him?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
It wasn’t difficult to read that she was furious with his question. As she had a right to be. He was behaving entirely out of character, getting involved with a woman beyond the bedroom, especially with a woman he had already made off-limits. He didn’t bed women who were looking for marriage—either temporary or permanent. Especially not princesses from politically hostile neighbouring countries.
And yet thinking of her married to some other man when she’d kissed him as she had the night before left a nasty taste in his mouth. And that was strange in itself. He’d kissed—hell, he’d made love to—plenty of women and never given a thought to who they might end up with. The notion had never entered his head before.
But then he’d never been as attracted to a woman as he was to this one. It was something he wasn’t sure how to handle. Because he still wanted her. In fact right now he wanted to take her into his arms, press her back against the wall and challenge her to ignore the sexual chemistry that pulsed between them.
‘I’m making it my business,’ he said, noting how her eyes widened at his tone.
‘You can’t.’ She made to move past him and her body brushed his. Raw, unparalleled desire arced between them, making a mockery of her words. Frowning in consternation, he knew she would have put more space between them if she hadn’t found herself neatly trapped between him and an outdoor table. ‘Marriages in our part of the world have been arranged for centuries,’ she continued, raising irritated eyes to his. ‘It’s a tradition.’
‘That’s what my brother said. But I’m a bit of an anti-traditionalist unless both parties are in agreement.’
‘Not all of us have the freedom that you do. And I have a duty to uphold.’
‘A duty that will lead you into a worse situation than you’re already in.’
‘That’s your opinion, not mine. An opinion you have no right to offer since you very clearly turned down my proposal last night.’
‘And the chemistry between us?’ He hadn’t realised he’d moved closer to her until she made to move away from him again. Irritated, he reached out and clasped her wrist in his hand. It was fine-boned, delicate, so small. His body hardened as memories of how she had felt in his arms coursed through his veins. Of how her nails had dug into his shoulders through his clothing. He wanted that again, but directly on his skin this time. ‘You’re just going to walk away from it? You’re going to pretend that you didn’t dream about me last night?’
Her breath left her in a soft rush. ‘I did not dream about you last night.’
‘I dreamt about you.’
Her eyes widened at the admission, her sharp inhalation setting every one of his nerve-endings on fire.
‘What would you have me do?’ She shot him a wary look, as well she might, given the nature of the questions and the answering thoughts currently running through his head.
What a pity that he couldn’t give into any of them.
‘I’d have you stand up for what you want,’ he bit out. Which was true enough. Being dutiful was one thing, being foolish another thing entirely.
She shook her head as if that wasn’t even a possibility. ‘Sometimes the only way to win is to retreat. It’s called strategy.’
‘It’s called insanity.’
‘To you,’ she said curtly. ‘To me it’s my duty. But I still don’t understand why you’re so interested in all this. Apart from wanting to play the white knight, that is.’
‘I don’t play the white knight,’ Rafe growled. He’d done that as a boy, stepping in between his parents during their more vitriolic arguments to protect his mother from his father’s rages. Neither parent had appreciated the conciliatory gesture—his father thinking him insubordinate, and therefore worthless, and his mother too caught up in her own pain to notice his.
The memory was a timely reminder as to why he steered clear of emotional entanglements. Entanglements like this.