If he took her admission as a signal for seizing her, she might summon up the will to leave. But those hard, long-fingered hands didn’t grab, and that thin, expressive mouth didn’t slobber.
A light glittered in his green eyes. "Are you really going to marry that clodhopping dunderhead?"
"He’s…he’s not a dunderhead. He’s one of the cleverest men in England."
At least when it came to making money. Cecil had mills all over the north of England, and coalmines and a fleet of ships. All built up from a modest inheritance from his yeoman father. Cecil, by rights, wasn’t wellborn enough to socialize with the Derwents and their circle, but Lord Derwent was seeking investment in an iron foundry. Money talked louder than breeding, however much the other guests made it clear that Cecil and his dowdy fiancée were here only on sufferance.
"I don’t believe it. If he is, he has no idea how to handle a woman. Especially a woman as exquisite as the one he’s caught."
Exquisite? Nobody had ever called her that before. During her life, most of the vanity had been beaten out of her. But praise from such a connoisseur of beauty would spark pleasure in even the world’s most self-effacing lady.
All pleasure fled when Lord Bruard went on. "Give the sod his marching orders. You’re too fine for him."
Horrid reality crashed down over her like a wave of freezing cold seawater. She might be too fine for Cecil, but she was too poor to think of giving him his marching orders. She broke away from Lord Bruard and slumped down onto the settle.
"Is becoming your mistress a better option?" Bitterness edged her voice, although she wasn’t angry with Bruard. Not really. "I doubt it."
Selina was however furious with herself. She knew what was at stake in her engagement to Cecil. Too much to risk everything on a flirtation with a rake, bored with easy conquests.
Bruard would get bored with her, too. Right now, she’d captured his interest because she’d tried to stay out of his way. Once he’d had her, any novelty would soon wear off. And with the novelty, whatever obscure charm he saw in her.
He didn’t try to take her arm again. "Perhaps you should wait until I ask you."
"I’m inexperienced with dalliance." She gave him a direct look. "But this feels like you’re getting ready to invite me into your bed."
His laugh held a note of reluctant admiration. "By heaven, you’re brave. I’ve already seen so much in you, so much that every other idiot here has missed, but I didn’t see that."
Selina didn’t warm to the backhanded compliment. "Have I got this wrong? You’re not asking me to sleep with you?"
That sensual smile curled his lips once more. "I had more in mind than sleeping, but, no, you haven’t got it wrong."
Her mind exploded with a thousand glorious ways Lord Bruard could fill her nights. Longing knotted her stomach – and regret, because she couldn’t say yes. Not when she had Gerald to worry about.
"I have to marry Cecil," she said in an uncompromising tone.
Her conscience told her to leave the library. Instead, she leaned against the back of the settle. She’d never have another chance to be alone with an attractive man. The temptation to linger overcame self-preservation. In the barren years to come, she’d take out her memory of this night and treasure it. For one glittering moment, she’d wanted a man and he’d wanted her in return.
Lord Bruard regarded her with displeasure. The expression made him look like a sulky pasha, unimpressed with the seraglio’s offerings. "Because he’s rich, I suppose."
Her lips tightened, although it would do her no good to deny the truth. "I assume you despise me for that."
"It was ever thus." He shrug
ged. "Gold buys beauty. Beauty buys gold. No, I don’t despise you."
Because she saw he was sincere, whereas she very much despised her mercenary motives, she explained, and devil take discretion. "I’m not far off indigent. My late husband was a gambler. And I have a son to care for."
He sighed and ran his hand through that disheveled mass of silky, dark hair. "I understand."
"Do you?"
"Of course. But even with all his riches, you must be able to do better than Canley-Smythe."
Bleak humor twisted her lips. "I’m a poor widow with no influential connections. How many fabulously wealthy men do you think swim into my acquaintance? How many even moderately solvent men? Beggars can’t be choosers, Lord Bruard. A beggar I’ll be, if I don’t go through with this wedding on Boxing Day."
After all this time, it was a relief to be honest. Even if the last person she’d ever imagined she’d confide in was a man notorious throughout the land for his sexual exploits.
But Lord Bruard spoke to her as if she was human, as if she had a brain in her head, and her shocking confession of marrying for money hadn’t repelled him.