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Authors: Caroline Linden
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for you,” he repeated in disbelief. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I want to marry a man who adores me,” she exclaimed, clasping both hands to her heart. “A man who declares his undying love for me every day!”
Suddenly he knew what had happened. “Did Miss Weston tell you to say that?” he asked, thin-lipped.
“Do you love me?” she boldly demanded. “If you do, you should have no trouble saying so!”
“That interfering little baggage,” he said under his breath. “Miss Lockwood, this is not what I expected from you—”
“Perhaps this is how I really am.” She put her hands on his chest and stepped closer, thrusting her face up almost accusingly. “You’ve never even tried to kiss me. Don’t you want to?”
He wanted to wring Penelope’s lovely neck. Benedict’s temper strained at the seams. How dare she instill her extravagant romantic notions into a proper young lady’s head? Where was the sweet, anxious-to-please Frances Lockwood he’d decided to marry? If he wanted this bold, demanding sort of woman, why, he might as well marry Penelope herself.
With jerky motions he took her hands in his and removed them from his chest. “Forgive me,” he said, controlling his voice with great effort. “Something seems to have come over you—”
“I just want to know if you love me.” She pulled free and raised her chin. “I thought you must, because you spoke to my father. You led him to believe you want to marry me. If you want to marry me, you must care for me, and yet you won’t say it.”
“What am I supposed to say?” he snapped. “What reply did Miss Weston tell you to demand?”
Her expression became almost mulish. “This has nothing to do with her. Why are you always asking about her?”
He shoved his hands through his hair. “Christ! She’s the last person I want to speak of!”
“Your language, sir,” she gasped, but Benedict had had enough.
“I cannot guess if this is your true self or if you’re just acting some part you think would amuse Penelope Weston, but I must tell you, it’s not very appealing. You want me to fight a duel over you? Over what? Do you expect to carry on with all sorts of men without even bothering to be discreet about it? Because that’s what drives men to duel, my dear—a faithless woman who doesn’t give a damn about the consequences of her actions. And if you intend to be that sort of woman, I most certainly will not be swearing my undying love to you, let alone risking my life for you.”
Her blue eyes were perfectly round, glistening with shocked tears, and the plume in her hair quivered with her every breath. “You—you—you heartless monster . I don’t want to see you ever again!” She turned on her heel and stomped across the room with her hands in fists at her sides. The door crashed against the wall when she flung it open, and he listened to her footsteps patter rapidly down the hall.
“Damn it!” Benedict stalked back and forth across the room. “God bloody damn it!” He slammed his fist into the wall, cursing again as pain jolted up his arm. He shook out his fingers and seethed.
She was the devil. That was the only explanation. A golden-haired, blue-eyed devil with a siren’s smile, whose sole mission in life was to undermine his plans and then gloat over the smoking ruins of his hopes. He could just imagine her satisfied little smile when Frances Lockwood told her the news: he’d been rejected once more and lost yet another prospective bride. In honesty, he didn’t think Abigail Weston’s refusal had been Penelope’s doing, but there was no question that she had instigated Miss Lockwood’s little drama tonight. Would you die for me? Was that what women wanted these days? What the bloody blazes was the world coming to?
Benedict flexed his aching fingers and told himself to think. So Frances Lockwood didn’t want to see him ever again. Perhaps that was a mercy. Even if she changed her mind, the
“I want to marry a man who adores me,” she exclaimed, clasping both hands to her heart. “A man who declares his undying love for me every day!”
Suddenly he knew what had happened. “Did Miss Weston tell you to say that?” he asked, thin-lipped.
“Do you love me?” she boldly demanded. “If you do, you should have no trouble saying so!”
“That interfering little baggage,” he said under his breath. “Miss Lockwood, this is not what I expected from you—”
“Perhaps this is how I really am.” She put her hands on his chest and stepped closer, thrusting her face up almost accusingly. “You’ve never even tried to kiss me. Don’t you want to?”
He wanted to wring Penelope’s lovely neck. Benedict’s temper strained at the seams. How dare she instill her extravagant romantic notions into a proper young lady’s head? Where was the sweet, anxious-to-please Frances Lockwood he’d decided to marry? If he wanted this bold, demanding sort of woman, why, he might as well marry Penelope herself.
With jerky motions he took her hands in his and removed them from his chest. “Forgive me,” he said, controlling his voice with great effort. “Something seems to have come over you—”
“I just want to know if you love me.” She pulled free and raised her chin. “I thought you must, because you spoke to my father. You led him to believe you want to marry me. If you want to marry me, you must care for me, and yet you won’t say it.”
“What am I supposed to say?” he snapped. “What reply did Miss Weston tell you to demand?”
Her expression became almost mulish. “This has nothing to do with her. Why are you always asking about her?”
He shoved his hands through his hair. “Christ! She’s the last person I want to speak of!”
“Your language, sir,” she gasped, but Benedict had had enough.
“I cannot guess if this is your true self or if you’re just acting some part you think would amuse Penelope Weston, but I must tell you, it’s not very appealing. You want me to fight a duel over you? Over what? Do you expect to carry on with all sorts of men without even bothering to be discreet about it? Because that’s what drives men to duel, my dear—a faithless woman who doesn’t give a damn about the consequences of her actions. And if you intend to be that sort of woman, I most certainly will not be swearing my undying love to you, let alone risking my life for you.”
Her blue eyes were perfectly round, glistening with shocked tears, and the plume in her hair quivered with her every breath. “You—you—you heartless monster . I don’t want to see you ever again!” She turned on her heel and stomped across the room with her hands in fists at her sides. The door crashed against the wall when she flung it open, and he listened to her footsteps patter rapidly down the hall.
“Damn it!” Benedict stalked back and forth across the room. “God bloody damn it!” He slammed his fist into the wall, cursing again as pain jolted up his arm. He shook out his fingers and seethed.
She was the devil. That was the only explanation. A golden-haired, blue-eyed devil with a siren’s smile, whose sole mission in life was to undermine his plans and then gloat over the smoking ruins of his hopes. He could just imagine her satisfied little smile when Frances Lockwood told her the news: he’d been rejected once more and lost yet another prospective bride. In honesty, he didn’t think Abigail Weston’s refusal had been Penelope’s doing, but there was no question that she had instigated Miss Lockwood’s little drama tonight. Would you die for me? Was that what women wanted these days? What the bloody blazes was the world coming to?
Benedict flexed his aching fingers and told himself to think. So Frances Lockwood didn’t want to see him ever again. Perhaps that was a mercy. Even if she changed her mind, the
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