Page 75 of The English Duke
“What do you want?”
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” he said. “Come to my bed tonight.”
She blinked at him, her smile fading away.
“Are you insane? What if Jordan finds out?”
His smile was back, an almost paternal, patronizing expression that irritated her.
“He won’t if you’re careful.”
His smile slipped a little, but his eyes hadn’t changed. They were still hard and a bit more calculating than she liked.
Perhaps she should have allowed him to embrace her after all.
“Do it, Josephine. Or I’ll go to Jordan.”
“You wouldn’t,” she said. “He’s your friend.”
“That’s exactly why I should,” he said.
Once again, she didn’t like either his tone or his look.
“Are you so desperate for female company you need to bargain for it, Reese?”
“Let’s just say you amuse me. One last night isn’t too much to pay for a lifetime of silence, is it?”
“But will it be a lifetime of silence?” she asked, her fingers trailing up his jacket front.
He didn’t answer her. Instead, he asked, “What shall I give you as a wedding gift? A silver vanity set? Or an urn, perhaps?”
“A tea set,” she said. “So when I’m entertaining my friends, I’ll think of you.”
He smiled again. He was almost as adept at his expressions as she was.
Reaching out, he pulled her to him and this time she allowed him to wrap his arms around her.
“Be careful, Josephine. I’m not one of the boys you play with. I’m a little more poisonous.”
She’d already figured that out. Drawing back, she smiled up at him.
“Then you’d better let me go so that no one sees us. If you want one last night with me.”
She wouldn’t look at him as she turned and walked away, but she knew he was watching her. Well aware, too, that she was playing a dangerous game. She could easily be caught going to Reese’s room.
The lure of the forbidden had always been exciting, however.
Martha didn’t go to the boathouse after the meeting. She didn’t want to be around Jordan. How could she possibly put into words her confusion or her feeling of... the only word wasbetrayal.
How foolish. He owed her nothing, not even constancy. She was the one who had appeared in his bedroom. She could have left at any time. He didn’t restrain her. He didn’t try to cajole her. If anything, she was the one who’d taken advantage of the situation. Not him.
She’d known something had been wrong. As she told Josephine, she thought he was under the effects of alcohol.
Even so, why hadn’t he remembered her? How had he gone from bedding her to offering for Josephine?
She spent the afternoon in her room, sitting by the window and staring out at the lake, trying to understand the past twenty-four hours. Finally, she bathed her face and tried to do something with her hair. A moment later she gave up, deciding her appearance wasn’t going to change.
She’d never be as pretty as Josephine.
