Three Proposals and a Scandal (Sons of Sin 4.50)

She hid a flinch. Seeing him was so painful and she could tell by the stubborn line of his mouth that nothing she said would make him leave. Hiding her distress behind composure was second nature to Marianne. Why was it so cursed difficult with this one man? “There is no contest. Or at least not one where you’re in the running. Last week, I refused your proposal. You should have the good grace to retire from the race.”

His eyes slitted in a way that sent apprehension slithering through her like a snake, colder than the winter air around her. “Oh, no, my lovely. This particular runner is vying for the prize and intends to win it.”

Despite her vow to appear unshaken, she took an unsteady step backward.

She gasped as her heel slipped in the mud. With lightning swiftness, Elias moved to seize her arm and save her from an embarrassing tumble.

“Careful,” he said, but she hardly heard.

All she felt was the heat of his touch through her blue sleeve. All she saw was the glitter in his black eyes. The breath jammed in her throat as he loomed nearer, tall, magnetic, oh, so, tempting. While he’d never kissed her, the promise of kisses had hovered behind every word they’d ever spoken to one another.

Her lips parted and she trembled in his grip, although what little common sense she retained screamed for her to run and not to stop until she was safely back at Ferney.

Nearer he leaned and nearer. His nostrils flared as he caught her scent. She could smell him too and it astonished her how familiar his essence was. Soap and clean skin and something rich and male that made her want to rub up against him. The primitive reaction stripped away her pretensions to control. She could only stand here, praying that he kissed her before she perished with need.

The delay extended. To her shame, a smothered whimper escaped her. When she edged forward in helpless encouragement, unholy satisfaction gleamed in his gaze before his thick eyelashes swept down.

So quickly that she staggered, he released her and retreated. That fraught moment of unbearable awareness might never have existed. If her blood didn’t pound in her ears like an earthquake. If her skin didn’t itch with longing. If his potent scent didn’t lure her greedy senses.

What on earth had they been talking about? The frigid air stung her hot cheeks. She’d dearly love to appear as if that nasty little piece of teasing left her unaffected, but his knowing eyes told her that he was fully aware how badly she’d wanted his kiss.

She swallowed and made an effort to sound like her usual self. She almost succeeded. “I’m not a prize, Lord Wilmott.”

He studied her as if he saw right through her hard-won tranquility to all the shameful secrets lurking in her soul. The most shameful secret of all, of course, was that she wanted him despite everything she knew about him.

“I beg to differ, Lady Marianne.” She flinched at the way his deep voice caressed her name. “You are a prize. When you realize that, you’ll be ready to fight for your happiness.”

“My lord—” she stammered, stricken.

He bowed and stepped back. “Good day.”

Only as she watched him stride through the trees and out of sight did she note the irritating fact that he’d left her, while she lingered behind. She’d dearly love to have flounced away from him with her pride intact.

After that disturbing encounter, pride and tranquility lay in ruins. More perturbing, she had no idea how to repair either.

She wished she’d clouted him with her umbrella.

Chapter Five

* * *

The rain had become a downpour before Marianne made it back to Ferney, distraught and angry after confronting Elias. The umbrella that had proven no use in keeping him at bay saved her from the worst of the wet, but she arrived at the Hillbrooks’ lovely house breathless, cranky and with her skirts and half-boots leaden with freezing water.

When Desborough proposed and Elias appeared out of nowhere to plague her, she should have realized this day was cursed. Even the weather turned against her. Fate’s malign sense of humor was again in evidence when she rushed into the high, airy hall to find it heaving with boisterous young men.

Including Lord Tranter, to whom she hadn’t devoted a thought since leaving London.

“Lady Marianne,” he exclaimed in unfettered pleasure, hurrying toward her. The haughty butler’s removal of Marianne’s cloak and dripping umbrella frustrated Tranter’s attempts to take her hands. The interval of fumbling comedy gave her the chance to control her surge of irritation at his intrusion. And at the proprietorial note in his light tenor voice. He’d greeted her like a lover.

She made no attempt to mirror his effusive welcome. “My lord, we didn’t expect to see you.”

Her lack of enthusiasm didn’t deter him. “I’d come down to see old Fitzherbert over there and realized how close you were. Couldn’t miss the chance to pay my respects.”

The black and white tiled hall resounded with vigorous male voices. A pack of young bucks accompanied Tranter. Sidonie was busy making arrangements while her enigmatic, scarred husband watched silently from the first landing. Despite Jonas Merrick’s presence at that happy gathering last Christmas at Fentonwyck, he still made Marianne uneasy. Right now, Lord Hillbrook looked like Lucifer presiding over Hell’s revels rather than a country gentleman accommodating unexpected guests. Two steps below him, Richard Harmsworth’s dog Sirius sat like a shaggy brindle familiar.

“Did you hear me, Lady Marianne?” Tranter asked. She caught brief pique in his clear blue eyes before he resumed his guileless expression.

Who could blame him if he was fed up with her? In his company, she had a habit of drifting off. “I’m sorry, my lord.”