Page 36 of The Devil in Her Bed
But she could only peek at him from beneath the shadows of her lashes, because being in his arms made her soul cold enough to lock her muscles with shudders.
This was who she’d been waiting to meet for nearly twenty years. The man most likely responsible for the death of her family. Who’d gone unpunished for so long.
Or had he?
She gathered the courage to scrutinize him. He’d lost all three of his children in such a horrific manner. Perhaps the tragedy had driven him to become a monster. Or perhaps as a monster, he’d driven his wife to do such a shocking and terrible thing. Who could say?
It didn’t matter now. He was her enemy.
But what sort of enemy was he? An idealist? A pervert? A tyrant? Did he lead an organization that had become corrupted, or had he corrupted his followers?
“I know what you’re thinking,” he murmured with a tender sort of condescension.
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“That we should marry.”
Francesca would have stumbled had he not rescued her with a dashing twirl that might have beenthe reason any normal woman would have appeared breathless.
He was nothing if not effortlessly deft.
Had he just proposed marriage in the same tone one might propose a game of whist?
“I-I beg your pardon?”
Lines appeared at his mouth and eyes that made him somehow look younger as his features were touched with amusement. “Logically, it makes a great deal of sense for us both.”
For a woman used to being two steps ahead of her opponent, Francesca found it that much more disconcerting to not be caught up. “But I-I’ve only just met you.”
“Certainly. But we’re getting along, aren’t we?”
“That’s hardly grounds for nuptials.”
His lip curled in an oddly familiar gesture. “I’m next in line to the Mont Claire title after you, and seeing as how we’re both without an heir, it might behoove us to make one.”
Francesca gulped. To the say the prospect repulsed her would be akin to saying the ocean was large or that hell was hot.
“I thought you were fourth in line. Or was it third?” she corrected.
“After two very unfortunate deaths, my dear, it would seem I am your heir.”
The blood left her face as she realized he didn’t even bother to appear as though the deaths weren’t anything but fortunate where he was concerned.
These deaths—they had to have been decidedly recent, or she’d have heard about them. If she didn’t accept his proposal, would the next untimely demise be her own?
“You don’t want me for a wife, my lord.” She injected a coy bit of modesty in her voice, remembering what Drake had said about the word. “I’m a tired old spinster.”
He hid his lips next to her ear so no one could read them. “I find you a wickedly desirable woman with an appetite that I’m told rivals mine,” he breathed before pulling back and affixing a delighted and fantastically artificial smile on his lips. “And I like to think I’m not without my charms.”
“Indeed.” He possessed every charm in the world, and he revolted her in every conceivable way.
“I see I’ve startled you,” he noted almost fondly.
Startled? A larger understatement had never been made.
Suddenly Francesca could not breathe. Her corset tightened and tightened until she felt as though her ribs would pop and stab her lungs. Or maybe one already had. The dazzling chandeliers above her blurred and drew strange halos on the ceiling with tails dragging behind.
She was suddenly worried that she’d lost her hearing, but it was when he released her and bowed that she realized the music had stopped.
