The idea of Sidonie slaving her life away as a spinster schoolmistress struck him as a tragic waste, but he knew better than to say so. He’d caught the militant light in her eye when she mentioned the unappealing scheme. “I’m surprised William hasn’t married you off. Especially if you already have a dowry.”
“I meant it when I said I’d never wed.” Whatever she saw in his smile, it discomfited her enough to make her try to shift away. He didn’t let her go. He began to suffer the alarming fantasy that he’d never let her go.
“Not all husbands are like William. Or like your father.”
Her expression turned bleak. “It’s pure luck, though, isn’t it? The law gives a husband ownership of his wife. I value my judgment too dearly to sacrifice it to another’s. And there’s no escape—the contract binds until death. A married woman is little better than a slave.”
“Not an opinion popular at Almack’s.”
She shrugged. “For six years, I’ve lived as William’s pensioner and watched him brag and bully. Even though my sister’s dowry was all that kept clothes on his back. Unmarried, I’m at the mercy of nobody’s mistakes but my own.”
“Don’t you want children?”
“Not at the cost of freedom.”
He frowned. “Such a solitary path you map. What about love?”
“Love?” She spat the word as though it tasted sour. “You surprise me, Merrick. I doubted you’d acknowledge the concept.”
“Astonishing, isn’t it?”
He waited for some derisive comment, but she remained silent. Perhaps because of that silence, he lifted the veil on the bitter truth he never mentioned. Ever. “I’m not a fool. I’ve seen devotion. My father loved my mother till the day he died. His heart broke when he lost her. And his heart broke anew every time the world called her ‘whore’.”
Damn it, he’d said too much. Revealed too much. He knew it the moment he saw Sidonie’s face whiten with distress. All his life he’d survived by standing alone, relying on nobody but himself. Yet these uncharacteristic confidences placed him even further under Sidonie’s spell.
He needed to remember that isolation offered safety, whatever the appeal of pansy eyes and soft female compassion.
When Sidonie entered the dining room that evening, Merrick rose from the throne-like chair at the end of the table. He sported coat and neckcloth and looked fit to grace a London drawing room, if one ignored the uncivilized marks on his face. No wonder he regarded life as his adversary. He’d paid dearly for everything he had—and still the deepest injury remained. He’d been proclaimed bastard. Nothing could change that. Nothing except the knowledge she concealed and couldn’t reveal without jeopardizing the people she loved.
His bitterness when he spoke of his parents still echoed in Sidonie’s mind, although he’d immediately realized he’d spoken too frankly. He’d retreated to playing the pleasant, if acerbic companion she’d occasionally glimpsed since arriving at the castle. The weather had kept them inside all afternoon and she’d enjoyed exploring his library. But one look at his face now warned her he was again the predatory man who had terrified and infuriated her last night.
She was sick to her stomach of being frightened. Tensing, she glared at him. “Don’t you like my dress?” she asked sharply, lifting her chin.
“Don’t you?”
“I’ve never had clothes like this in my life.” At some point since her arrival, he’d ordered some gowns from Sidmouth. She wore a dark green dress Mrs. Bevan had altered to fit.
“You could thank me.”
She surveyed him without favor. “I assume a verbal expression of gratitude will suffice.”
He winced theatrically. “Why, Miss Forsythe, you suspect ulterior motives?”
“Hardly ulterior.”
She stood in quivering stillness while he prowled toward her. “Turn round.”
“I’m not a toy in your playbox.”
His smile held a hint of wickedness. “Oh, yes, you are, carissima.”
“This toy has spikes,” she growled, not shifting.
“I’ll handle you with care.” He wandered around her in a leisurely inspection that seemed to endure an hour. Devil take him, he set the very air vibrating.
“Very nice.” He stepped forward to straighten the blond lace trimming the disgracefully low bodice. With mortifying swiftness her nipples hardened. She hoped to heaven he didn’t notice.
“The dresses are indecent,” she said stiffly, the rich silk flowing against her body like water.
“But pretty.”
She shot him another fulminating glance. His eyes lit with that unholy glint she’d learned to mistrust. “Admit it. It’s a gorgeous dress and you look gorgeous in it.”
“It’s made for a courtesan.”
He snorted. “What do you know about courtesans, sweet little lamb?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Knowing about courtesans is no character recommendation.”
“Cutting.” His smile reeked satisfaction. “Yet still you wear the gown.”
“Mrs. Bevan took away my muslin.”
“She must need a dishclout.”
She didn’t know why she argued. Who could object to wearing something so stylish? While the silk might cling to her body, it wouldn’t raise an eyebrow in any London salon. Especially on a lady no longer an ingénue. “No respectable woman would wear this dress.”
He trailed one finger down her cheek, tracing a prickling path of awareness. “But, amore mio, you’re no longer a respectable woman. You’re a monster’s paramour.”
Heat flared in her face and she jerked away. “Not yet.”
The fascinating lines around his eyes deepened with the laughter that always warmed her to her bones, in spite of everything she knew about him. “Not yet? By Jove, you offer hope.”
“Arrogant pig.”
He pulled a heavy oak chair from the table. Reluctantly she moved forward. He might be a somnolent tiger as he regarded her with a possessive light in his gray eyes. But she could never forget he was still a tiger. His lips twitched. “Relax, Sidonie. I promise not to accost you over the buttered parsnips.”
Instead of taking the master’s chair, he chose a place opposite her. He reached for the claret decanter and poured two glasses. The ruby ring glinted in the candlelight. Tonight it didn’t remind her of blood. It made her think of passion. She heartily wished it didn’t.
Taking a deep breath to settle the wild ballet of her nerves, she raised the glass to drink. William’s cellar contained sour, young vintages. This wine tasted like everything rich and forbidden. The warmth was a frail echo of the heat stirring in her belly as she looked at Merrick, watching her, always watching her. This afternoon’s confidences, however unwillingly granted, had deepened the unspoken bond between them.
She struggled to return to the prosaic world, even if a prosaic world of gourmet food and luxury and a man whose every word promised