“I wish—” he began.
There was a noise outside the room. Both men froze, listening. It had sounded very much like a sneeze.
Was one of the servants eavesdropping? thought Valentine. What the devil did it mean?
Rising from his chair and striding quickly across the room, he wrenched open the door.
Marissa Rotherhild had turned to run, but it was too late. He reached for her arm, halting her so suddenly that she stumbled and swung about, falling against him. The shock of her soft body against his, the scent and feel of her, rendered him momentarily unable to move or think. Breathing hard, he stared down into her pale face as her expression turned from surprise to wariness.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing spying on me?” Valentine roared.
Her eyes grew wide. He could see every lash surrounding them and the lush melted chocolate brown of her irises.
“I wasn’t spying on you.” But her voice sounded uncertain. She licked her lips and the sight of her pink tongue sliding over the soft flesh went straight to his groin. For some reason this infuriated him even more than finding her outside the door.
“You were eavesdropping, Miss Rotherhild!” He pulled her harder against him, looming over her. “All this talk of George was just a blind, wasn’t it? I knew you were too good to be true. You’re spying for Von Hautt. Admit it, damn you!”
Her eyelashes fluttered and she sagged in his hands, almost as if she was about to faint. He didn’t need Jasper’s murmured admonishment to bring him to his senses. Shocked by his own uncharacteristic behavior, Valentine wrapped his arm about her waist, supporting her. Had it really been so long since he’d been in the company of an attractive woman that he’d lost the ability to function as a gentleman should?
“Miss Rotherhild. Marissa. Please…I beg you…”
Just for a moment she rested her head against his chest, while he cradled her in his arms, and he felt the strangest feeling. As if the world had ceased to exist beyond the two of them. And then she placed her palms against him and gave him a determined shove. He stumbled back a step, releasing her, and the spell was broken.
She was watching him warily, her hands clasped together now, her fingers white at the knuckles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I came to this house at George’s invitation, just as I told you. I have not been spying on you, Lord Kent. I have never spied on anyone in my life.”
“I apologize,” he muttered. He hadn’t meant to grab her like that, but seeing her there, thinking she might be on the side of his enemy, had sparked an anger in him he hadn’t known he was capable of. It was the disappointment, he decided, of discovering her perfection might be so badly flawed.
“Where is George?” she said, looking into the room as though expecting him to appear from between the books on the bookshelves.
He stared at her in complete bewilderment. “George? I’ve already told you that George isn’t here.”
The color had returned to her cheeks and her eyes sparkled with emotion. Whatever weakness she’d felt in his arms a moment ago had been banished. There was courage in the tilt of her chin and the set of her shoulders. Courage and beauty in equal measure.
“I don’t believe
you. You’re lying to me. You were so secretive over luncheon, it was obvious there was something you were both keeping from me.”
“Miss Rotherhild, I promise you I am not keeping anything from you. George comes and goes as he wishes. Despite the old adage, I am not his keeper.”
“But there is something,” she said stubbornly. “I know there is something.”
Valentine shook his head. “It seems we have both been laboring under a misapprehension. Jasper and I do have a secret, but it has nothing to do with George.”
Her look was skeptical, as if she was unprepared to think anything but the worst of him.
Valentine hesitated. He knew his quest for the Crusader’s Rose was none of Marissa Rotherhild’s business, but it wasn’t as if it was a secret. The botanical community knew of his obsession—they probably had a good laugh at his expense. He remembered what Marissa had said at dinner, about her lack of interest in botany. George and I are as one on that. But surely the daughter of the famous Professor Rotherhild must have inherited something of her father’s extraordinary zest? It was childish perhaps, but he wanted to find out.
“Come,” he said, “and I will explain.”
He held out his hand to her, but she would not take it. He accepted the snub—he deserved it after all—and stepped aside to let her by. After a brief hesitation curiosity got the better of her and she walked past him, her nose in the air, the hem of her skirts brushing the toes of his shoes. He followed her to the desk, where his father’s papers lay spread about.
“Sit down, Miss Rotherhild,” he said, coming up behind her.
She cast him a suspicious glance and he had the urge to brush his thumb over the protrusion of her bottom lip. Just before he kissed her. But of course he did neither.
“I promise not to manhandle you again,” he said quietly. “Please sit down and I will confess all to you.”
She ignored the tease in his voice and took her time arranging her skirts to her satisfaction, before folding her hands in her lap and striking a waiting pose. Her perfume drifted toward him and he was once more confounded by the reaction of his body. This was George’s young lady and he should not be thinking of her in such a way, but he couldn’t seem to help it.