‘A family.’
‘A…what?’
She flushed and turned away. ‘You needn’t mock. I know it’s impossible. But you asked.’ The break in her voice rocked his world on its axis.
He said carefully, ‘You want children?’ His mistresses had, one and all, taken whatever precautions could be taken against that catastrophe. A mistress who wanted a child? Deep within something tightened.
She didn’t answer, but started dusting. He frowned. That was something she wouldn’t need to do again.
‘Selina?’
At last she replied. ‘That would be nice too. But what I meant was that it would be…I’d like…to belong. To be part of people’s lives. Not to be always apart.’
Max’s world gave another wobble. ‘You have no family? Not even someone to write to?’
‘There is no one I can call my kin.’ Her voice hardened. ‘No one to give a present to. Which is just as well, since I have nothing to give.’
His heart ached for her, even as he realised the advantage it gave him. No family. No one to be horrified and ashamed at the step she was about to take. No one who would refuse to acknowledge her ever again. He ignored his conscience, which suggested it made her even more vulnerable. She would be his. Safe. He moved towards her, removing the duster from her hand and dropping it.
Awareness leapt within Verity at his nearness, at the brush of long fingers over hers. Then her hand was caught in a gentle, inescapable grip, his thumb stroking sensuously over her roughened skin. Everything within her contracted, shivered in expectation. What on earth was he about? She looked up at him, shocked. A mistake.
‘Nothing?’ His smile deepened and, with it, the flare of something hungry in his eyes. Something warm that melted her, bone deep.
Uncertainly she shook her head. ‘I have nothing,’ she repeated.
‘You have something I want.’
His voice was a deep caress and she realised that he had drawn even closer, that his body brushed against her, that the sharp, tangy odour of his cologne surrounded her, wreathing through the beeswax.
‘Would you consider another sort of position, Selina?’ he asked quietly.
What? Her mind wouldn’t focus, could only absorb the nearness of him, the longing to lean against him. She shook her head to clear it enough to focus on his suggestion of a new position. The Faringdons would not permit it, but she could not tell him that. She dared say nothing that might give him a clue to her identity. ‘Without a reference…I have nothing to live on while I find another place.’ It was true enough, just not all of the truth. A curl fell into her eyes, tickling, and she pushed it behind her ear. It escaped immediately. Impatiently she lifted her hand again. Then froze.
His hand lifted to her face, pushing the errant curl away from her eye. He didn’t bother to tuck it away, but threaded his fingers into her hair in a shockingly intimate gesture. She could feel his thumb circling slowly at her temple, then drifting lower to caress her cheek, her jaw, her throat.
Heat bloomed, and a strange ache invaded her breasts, her belly. A tightening that pulsed to the beat of her heart, suddenly pounding. She could only stare up at him, eyes wide. Her whole body quivered with anticipation, lost in a dreamlike daze. ‘My lord?’ Her breath shortened. ‘I…I don’t understand…’
‘Then I shall have to explain,’ he murmured.
Her breath jerked in. Never before had a man’s voice stabbed into her like that. But then again, never before had a man spoken to her as his arms stole about her and his lips brushed her ear. Pleasure rippled through her even as understanding coiled painfully inside. She knew now what he wanted.
A light touch grazed her throat, drifted along her jaw.
Breathless, she looked up, shivers racing through her, and met a penetrating amber gaze only inches away. She felt caged by his warmth, his strength, by the scent of shaving soap and the spicy masculine smell that underlay it. Her hand rose uncertainly, drawn by the faint shadowed roughness of his jaw, her fingers itched to stroke it, test its texture.
She mustn’t. She understood now what he wanted. She should draw back, but his eyes and touch held her trapped. Gently. Safe, but suddenly vulnerable. To her own desire. Her breath shivered out and she realised that she had been holding it, that her heart’s pounding had nothing to do with terror. And that he was even closer. He leaned forward, his breath a tender caress on her lips. Every precept—of modesty, decorum, every scrap of good sense—screamed a warning. Run!
She lifted her face and felt the warm, gentle touch of his lips. Oh, the joy of being touched and held tenderly. With…affection? Featherlight, his mouth brushed across hers in the briefest of kisses. Delight shot through her. His warmth enfolded her. Her lips parted on a soundless sigh and for an instant the kiss deepened, possessing her completely, then it was over almost before she could believe it had happened. With a final, lingering caress at the corner of her mouth, he drew back, releasing her.
Her eyes fluttered open. She hadn’t even realised they were shut. He was still close, close enough that she could see his pulse beating in his throat.
His voice came, calm and soft. ‘Perhaps that will make things clearer.’
She could only nod, certain that without breath her voice would not function. And then she wondered why she had nodded as though things were clearer. She was more confused than ever. How he could speak so indifferently was beyond her comprehension. He had kissed her until her head spun. Grimly she reminded herself of Lady Moncrieff. He’s used to beautiful women. Women who know how to…to please a man. Whatever that means. Why would his head spin? Why would he even kiss her? He couldn’t want her. Could he?
‘Well, Selina? Do you understand now?’
Only too well. Braced against the gentleness in his voice, she turned to go. Oh, yes. She understood well enough. But Max would never try to force her consent.
His hand shot out and caught her wrist.
Shock, as much as his grip, held her motionless. Fear stirred and knotted. She ignored it and fought to infuse her voice with icy indifference. ‘Sir?’
‘A moment, Selina.’
It was not a request. The grip on her wrist sent the knot of fear twisting through her stomach. Oh, no. Surely not him too. Could she have been mistaken in him? Tension singing through her, she faced him, trying to force her breathing to steady.
His intent gaze rested on her face, then dropped to her captive wrist. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. His hand fell from her and she felt bereft, as though part of her had torn itself away.
Resisting the urge to hold the wrist to her cheek, she waited, some of her fear allayed.
‘Not all positions require references, Selina. And I can assure you I would be a gentler lover than Godfrey Faringdon has been.’
Tension gripped her again. Carefully, slowly, she stepped back, holding his gaze with hers, certain that any moment he would grab her, drag her into his arms. Men didn’t really ask. Men took.
‘I…I should not be here, my lord. Please excuse me.’ She backed away, her gaze never leaving his face, the bright topaz eyes watching her like a big cat, until she reached the door. Then she fled.
Max swore. She had refused him. Without hesitation. And her life here was hell. She was treated like a slave. How could enduring that be preferable to a discreet and well-paid liaison with himself? She didn’t dislike him. She had responded to his kiss. She couldn’t possibly have thought he would offer marriage. So why the devil wouldn’t she even consider being his mistress? Obviously