Page 62 of Enticing the Devil

“No, it needn’t,” she argued, her voice rising in subtle panic. “As long as no one knows—”

“I know,” he growled. “And so does Wright and your father.”

The choked sound that caught in her throat tightened his own breath. She shook her head as a new sadness entered her gaze.

“It didn’t have to go this far.”

The despair in her voice cut deep, the edge of the blade ragged and sharp. He gathered himself against the rawness growing inside him. She was right. This whole thing should have —could have—been handled so much better. He thought he’d done the right thing by calling for her father, but it was the worst thing he could have done. His decision had backed her into a corner.

“Neither of us wanted this,” he said bluntly, “but it no longer matters. We will be married, Lady Anne.”

Her eyes glittered with emotion as she met his gaze. “And if I refuse?”

His stomach dropped, but he answered with dark conviction. “You won’t.”

Her eyes widened and she blinked hard in affront. “You think me so biddable? So lacking in my own judgement I’d just submit to your dictates?” Her voice was sharp with anger. Then her eyes widened. “Or do you simply believe me to be that desperate?”

He forced himself to meet her angry, distrustful gaze. He’d have to tell her the rest. It was the only way she’d accept that there was simply no choice in the matter.

“You can’t refuse.”

She stiffened and her eyes widened. Something in his tone must have gotten through the haze of her wrath.

In a low whisper, she asked, “What do you mean, I can’t?”

Fuck. He really didn’t want to have to say this out loud, but he couldn’t be a coward about this. She had to know.

And as badly as he wanted to spare her the pain of her father’s betrayal, it was likely the only thing that would convince her to go through with marrying him. His jaw aching from grinding his back teeth, he held her gaze as he replied, “Whether you marry me or not, your father...” Beynon curled his hands into fists. The words felt like lead bricks in his mouth. “He disowned you.”

To his shock, she remained utterly still as he forced the last words. The only evidence of any emotional response being her slightly quickened breath and the undeniable turbulence in her gaze. Then she turned and walked across the room to the window. Her steps were slow, as though she had to concentrate to put each foot before the other. For a length of silence, she stood there—her spine straight and her shoulders unbowed as she stared out into the night.

Beynon had to physically force himself not to go to her. She wouldn’t welcome him.

He was suddenly struck by the awareness that although this woman’s fortitude was a quiet thing, it was no less powerful for that fact. And he once again wondered how he had ever mistaken her for being meek or dull. She was a force unto herself and the subtlety of her inner strength was woven through her voice when she finally replied.

“Then it would seem you were quite right, Mr. Thomas. I have no choice at all.”

Then she turned, and without even a glance in his direction, she walked to the door. Opening it wide, she stepped aside and only then looked back at him. Her expression was stoic. Her eyes dark and quiet. “You’d best leave.”

His body tensed sharply in rejection. He wanted to refuse. Every urging inside him clamored to stay and offer...

What? Comfort? Or sympathy? When what he really wanted to do was send a fist into Lord Humphries’s prominent nose?

If only Colin hadn’t stopped him. At least the pain of bloodied knuckles might offer Beynon some satisfaction in this godforsaken moment.

Lady Anne’s blue-green gaze stared hard into his soul. He’d never seen her so...unfeeling. The violet hue of her gown and the pale halo of her hair gave her an ethereal appearance in the dim lighting. Ethereal and intrinsically unyielding, once again bringing to mind those fearsome fairy queens from the stories of his childhood.

“I’d like you to leave, Mr. Thomas,” she noted firmly when he still hadn’t moved. “Now.”

He strode from the room in silence. What more could he possibly say? He was the bastard who’d gotten her into this situation—in more ways than one. He was the man who deserved a few fists to the face.

A good brawl might do the trick to make him feel as bad on the outside as he did inside. Unfortunately, his chances of finding a proper opponent were slim to none.

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