If he took her now, he’d show her pleasure. He’d treat her with respect and care.
It would still be a grievous wrong.
“I hope you’ll forgive me. I didn’t behave like a gentleman.”
Her lips tightened. “In my opinion, you’re behaving too much like a gentleman, my lord.”
No sweet whispers of Rory now, he noticed, hiding a wince. His refusal of her breathtaking generosity clearly stung. He could endure her anger. Her pain left him feeling like she eviscerated him with a blunt butter knife. Every word he spoke only seemed to widen the gulf between them.
He longed to take her in his arms, but he was grimly aware how precariously he maintained control. If he touched her, Miss Farrar would face tomorrow as a fallen woman. This wondrous, bright, new feeling that grew between them would become a thing of shame and secrets.
He couldn’t bear that.
He repeated what he’d recognized when, eager and reckless, she’d begged him not to stop. Bess Farrar deserved better.
“Bess…”
She sighed, a sound of such misery, it made him want to howl like a motherless bairn. “I’m sorry. I’m acting like a witch.”
Blistering sexual frustration didn’t leave him feeling too jolly either. He wondered why doing the right thing made her furious and him wretched. Where was the justice in that? “No.”
He’d never seen so much effort put into a smile to such little effect. His hands fisted against the urge to catch her up against him.
Because while he might set out to comfort, that wasn’t how everything would end. Damn it all to hell.
“You’re trying to be kind.” Dull eyes leveled upon him. “You’re a good man, my lord.”
If she knew the demons of lust warring for ownership of his soul, she wouldn’t say that. “No, I’m not.”
She managed a choked laugh. “I’m not a witch, and you’re not a good man? We can’t seem to agree on anything.”
She struggled to make the best of a situation which had no best in it. By God, she humbled him. “Please listen to me.”
Except what the devil could he say? How could he form a coherent explanation from this churning maelstrom of contradictory impulses? And if he started reassuring her in words that he wanted her and he’d pulled back for her sake, he knew he’d go on to demonstrate that desire in actions. Next time he wouldn’t find the strength to stop.
“No, not now.” Her voice cracked, and her hands dug into the thick, gray blankets. He loathed that he’d pushed this vivid creature so close to the edge of breaking. “Lord Channing, I’d be most grateful if we didn’t discuss this anymore. I find…I find I’m very tired.”
“Bess, for pity’s sake…”
“Yes, for pity’s sake, my lord, please…please leave me in peace.”
“Very well,” he said grimly. Despite the risk to his control, he ached to talk to her, to explain what had happened, to make her understand. But she looked so exhausted and sad, he couldn’t bear to push her.
She flopped down on the bed and turned her back. For a long moment, he stared at her eloquently hunched shoulders, suffering a roiling mixture of longing and remorse. He knew he made a complete bloody mess of this, but he didn’t know how to fix it.
Eventually with a heavy sigh, he stood and fed the fire before he tugged on his greatcoat. When his fingers snagged in the rip Daisy had made in his sleeve, he swore under his breath. The reminder of the first time he’d kissed Bess wasn’t exactly welcome just now.
He banged the chairs together to form a makeshift bed. Nowhere near as comfortable as the one Bess occupied in bristling silence. But even if she allowed him to sleep beside her, he knew better than to test his willpower.
Rory leaned back against one chair and propped his feet on another. The iron-hard wood beneath his arse served as yet another reminder of the price of virtue. But whatever his wicked self wanted, he knew in his soul he’d done the right thing.
If only Bess thought so, too.
He drew out his pocket watch. It was only just past nine o’clock. He felt like he’d lived a lifetime in the last hour. His thoughts strayed toward those miraculous kisses, but he brought himself up short. Things were difficult enough already, without torturing himself about what he could be doing right now, instead of trying to arrange his long body in a way that wouldn’t leave him hobbling tomorrow.
Outside the wind shrieked like a banshee. Contrary to Bess’s optimistic predictions, the storm showed no sign of abating. It was going to be a hell of a long night.
Chapter 8