She must know her collusion with his uncle no longer mattered. All that mattered was she was female and he wanted her. Wanted her with every beat of his yearning heart.
As his uncle had known he would.
He curled his fingers so hard against the wood that the edges bit painfully into his flesh.
Jesus, had it come to this? Eleven lonely years of struggle to retain his humanity. Then one whiff of female and he forgot everything else?
He would not do it. He would not.
His uncle hadn’t yet won. Although he came damned close with this latest sally.
Matthew could hold out against temptation.
Just.
Brave words. Only with the greatest difficulty did he straighten and step back.
He’d honed his mind as his weapon against Lord John. Only to find his body threatened to prove his downfall. His body and one exquisite strumpet.
As he retreated, she released her breath in a sobbing gasp.
She was frightened of the madman. Well, let her stay frightened. If she kept her distance, he might have a chance against her. Despair blacker than the surrounding night weighed his heart as he trudged downstairs to his mean, makeshift bed in the salon.
He was trying to accommodate his ungainly height to a sofa never designed for sleeping when he heard a sudden flurry of footsteps on the floor above.
The door to the bedroom slammed shut with enough force to rattle the windowpanes.
Late the next morning, Matthew worked in the walled courtyard, grafting his new hybrid to some rootstock. He felt an electric shift in the air and looked up to find the wench staring at him from the red brick archway. She looked in better health than yesterday, although her face was still stark with suffering and her cobalt eyes still cut to his soul.
“Good morning,” he said stiffly. The hand holding the grafting knife dropped away from the rose bush.
“Good morning, my lord,” she responded with those damnably perfect manners.
Her gaze fixed on the knife but she didn’t retreat. Even after one day, he was used to her daring. She took a wary step from the shadow of the ivy and entered the heart of his private kingdom.
Then he noticed what she wore and he almost groaned aloud. The teal dress hung loosely on her slight frame and slashed perilously low across her magnificent bosom. He could see the rounded tops of her breasts and the intriguing valley between them. The neckline drooped so all he could think about was how easily he could bare that creamy bounty.
Manfully, he dragged his gaze from her cleavage to meet her accusing glare.
Well, what could she expect when she flaunted herself in whore’s regalia?
Last night, he’d sworn never to touch her. But it was only human to look, wasn’t it? Looking couldn’t hurt. But looking led inevitably to touching.
If he touched her, he was lost.
She wrapped her arms around herself to hide her eye-catching décolletage. An attractive flush lay high on her cheekbones. He had to give his uncle credit for unearthing the only whore in Christendom who remembered how to blush.
He returned his attention to what he was doing. It took him a hellishly long time. For once, his thoughts were far from his botanical experiments.
Any conversation had faltered after the greeting. What did he know of entertaining the fair sex? Nothing. And right now, he told himself with no great conviction, he was glad.
He waited for her to accept the dismissal. She merely hovered near the archway as if she were as ill at ease as he.
Nice touch, he thought grimly. And snagged his thumb on a thorn for his trouble.
He wiped the spot of blood on his linen shirt and glared at her. Against his will, he made a detailed inventory of the figure the dress displayed. The narrow waist. The way the shiny material skimmed the outward curve of her hips. She wasn’t wearing petticoats—indication enough of her lack of virtue—and the light behind her offered glimpses of her legs through the skirt.
Every drop of moisture in his mouth evaporated as his gaze traced their slender length. He clenched his hands at his sides to stop himself from reaching for her.