Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection
He suddenly felt like a fool. Was he wrong about her feelings? Had his arrogance alone convinced him that she cared?
The thought that she didn’t love him after all crashed down like a landslide, and for a long moment, he couldn’t breathe. Joss wasn’t a man who prayed much, but faced with her closed expression, he found himself praying that he misunderstood her reaction.
She avoided his eyes and folded her arms across her lovely bosom in an obviously protective gesture. What in Hades did she need to protect herself from? Surely not him. Good God, he was ready to pledge his life to cherishing her.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said urgently.
The ragged demand made him wince. An hour—ten minutes—ago, he’d have said they were so close, he knew everything in her head and heart.
Now she was a stranger.
She regarded him with the wariness he hadn’t seen since he’d arrived. He hated it. He’d believed she trusted him. Hell, she’d come to his bed. What greater statement of trust could she make?
Apart from promising him the rest of her life. And from what he could see, that asked far too much.
“I’m grateful for your offer,” she said in a flat voice.
“Grateful?” Baffled rage surged. What the devil was going on? “What blasted sort of namby-pamby response is that to a fellow’s proposal?”
She flinched from his tone. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Have to? What’s going on?” He frowned. “I want to marry you, by heaven.”
The familiar obstinacy settled on her features. He’d seen it during their first days together, when she’d battled to keep him at a distance.
Well, he’d demolished it before. He could demolish it again. But beneath his bravado lurked desolation.
It was so clear that they belonged together. Why in blazes couldn’t she see that, too?
“It’s not suitable.” She drew herself up, looking as proud as a queen. “I’m a servant.”
A servant? God give him strength. He couldn’t imagine a woman looking less like a servant. “Devil take you, of course it’s suitable,” he snapped.
“Stop shouting at me.”
Joss wasn’t exactly shouting, but he knew he was acting like a bear instead of a suitor. He struggled to moderate his tone. It was difficult when this meant so damned much—she meant so damned much—and she spouted such arrant nonsense.
“I’m sorry.” But not as sorry as he was that she hadn’t said yes, blast it.
“I don’t have to marry you,” she said with a hint of truculence.
Joss subjected her to narrow-eyed attention. “No, you don’t.” Although God help them, if he’d put a baby inside her, she bloody well did. “Forgive me if I mistook your feelings, but I hoped you might want to marry me.”
She continued to avoid his eyes. That suddenly struck him as a good sign. The first good sign since his impetuous proposal.
“We’ve only known each other a couple of days.” In a dance of distress, those slender hands twined and untwined at her waist. “We’re not far off strangers.”
“Piffle,” he spat out.
His uncompromising response had her raising surprised eyes to his. He stepped close enough to loom over her. His inconvenient size intimidated most men, but gallant Maggie Carr squared her shoulders and glared. If only she knew how that defiance made her his perfect bride in a way that transcended issues of status or fortune.
His heart crashed against his ribs as he recalled how perfectly they’d fitted together when he’d thrust inside her. She was a fool to deny that they were fated to be together.
He went on before she could muster another argument. “If we’re strangers, what the hell do you mean by giving yourself to me?”
The delicate jaw set firmer. “You’re still shouting.”
“No, I’m not.” But he paused to run his hand through his hair and suck in an impatient breath. And his voice was marginally quieter when he continued. “Maggie, don’t you want to marry me?”