Page 9 of Harpy of the Ton
Why she felt the need to tell him that, she didn’t know. But if she meant him to be impressed, he showed no sign. Instead, he arched an eyebrow in a gesture that carried an air of amusement—or disdain.
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” she replied. “It would serve you well to remember my position—as well as yours.”
“I’m always willin’ to recall a woman’sposition,” he said, his voice deepening, “particularly in relation to mine.”
He cocked his head to one side, and the uncomfortable heat in her center began to spread through her veins. Whatever the meaning of his last words, they carried an air of…depravity.
Delectabledepravity.
Sweet heaven!Her body had reacted on her observing him from a distance, but at close proximity, his potency threatened to overwhelm her. She drew in a breath to temper the sensations threading through her body, but her senses were assaulted by the scent of him—the heady, spicy cocktail of wood, smoke, and fresh sweat.
The scent of man.
No! This willnotdo!
She closed her eyes in an attempt to compel her body to quieten the maelstrom swirling inside, curling her hands into fists to stem the tremors in her body as fear threatened to engulf her…
Fear of the unknown, fear of her body, which seemed to have a will of its own…
…and fear of her own desires—the raw, base need in her soul to surrender to the depravity.
No!
“Anythin’ the matter, your ladyship?”
His voice, laced with amusement, broke through the fog of need, and she opened her eyes to see him staring at her, his eyes filled with a lust to match her own—and something far worse.
Recognition.
He recognized her desire for what it was—like a stallion recognizing the scent of a mare in heat.
Stop it!
She stepped back, and his eyes widened with concern. Before his concern turned into pity, she gestured toward the garden.
“I want the rosebushes clipped into a symmetrical pattern after you’ve planted them,” she said.
“You’ll never force a rosebush to conform to your niceties, your ladyship. I can plant them in a symmetrical pattern, but if they’re to thrive, they must be allowed to grow as nature intended.”
“Not if the garden is to conform to aesthetics,” she said. “Or are you so ignorant of your trade that you refuse to obey instructions? I hardly think it proper to letanythingrun wild.”
“Do you speak of rosebushes, or prospective duchesses?”
“I should have you whipped for insulting your better!” she cried.
The warmth in his eyes turned to frost. “You’re no better than I, madam,” he said. “An idle, pampered creature, engaged to a man nearly twice her age, merely because he has a title. Do you even love him?”
Arabella caught her breath. “Who are you to ask such a thing?”
He shrugged. “It’s a simple enough question—do you love the man or not?” He turned the shovel over in his hands, as if inspecting the handle. “I care nothing for your feelings, but perhapsyoushould, seein’ as you’ll be surrendering your freedom and your person to him.”
Her arrow may have found its target, but his missile buried itself deep into her heart, releasing the uncomfortable truth.
Then his expression filled with understanding, as if he recognized the pitiful creature that she was. An object—chattel—to be used according to the whims of the man who owned her.
Curse him! Curse them all!
