‘What is the matter?’ He came and stood in front of her as she sat there, curled up in her exotic boy’s clothes. ‘I told you everything will be all right. Your name will be cleared, we’ll get Makepeace out of your aunt’s life and you will have your own money.’
Lina shook her head. What could she tell him except the truth, that she loved him? Even the new, braver woman that she was baulked at that. Quinn would want to run a mile—he was not a marrying man, beside anything else. Perhaps one day he would fall in love, but she thought it far more likely that he would find a complacent wife to give him his heir, keep his house and leave him free to do exactly as he pleased.
‘It is the other night, is it not? When I took you.’ She saw the way his eyes darkened, just thinking about it. She winced. Took you sounded so brutal for something that had been, for a few moments, so wonderful.
‘I do not consider it,’ she said. There I go, lying to him again.
‘Then you should do. It is going to be damned awkward if you want to marry.’
‘Why? I can always deceive him,’ she said, feigning lightness. ‘I am sure the girls can tell me all the tricks I would need to use.’
‘You would lie to your husband?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Not if I loved him.’ I will never find another man I can love, so that does not matter.
‘Hades,’ he swore, turning away. She watched him, enjoying the sight of his lean elegance, the masculine strength of him, even as she struggled with the misery that threatened to sweep over her. He turned back, intent on her expression. ‘Well, there is only one thing I can see that would square this circle. Marry me.’
Lina felt the blood drain out of her face. ‘No. Absolutely not. Impossible.’ Quinn opened his mouth, but she swept on. ‘You are a baron. Even before all this, I was simply Miss Celina Shelley from an obscure country vicarage. I cannot possibly marry you—with your history you need a wife of the utmost respectability, not a nonentity who has lived in a brothel, been accused of theft, was found in a naked man’s bedchamber… Oh, yes, and not only is my aunt a courtesan, so was my mother, although I do not believe my father ever discovered that.’
There, surely that was enough to stop this madness. But, no, she saw as she watched him, it was not. ‘It sounds eminently sensible to me,’ he remarked, folding up neatly on to the carpet to sit cross-legged at her feet as easily as if he was wearing his Eastern clothes. ‘I get a wife who is not going to cavil about my past. I know the worst about you. No secrets. We will be good in bed,’ he added, watching her from under hooded lids.
‘Is that all you think about?’ Lina demanded, furious to find he was putting outrageously tempting thoughts into her head. Sex should not matter. Love should and Quinn’s future and reputation.
‘Certainly not. I am thinking about Simon’s memoirs, Makepeace, Tolhurst, throwing a party, the duel, selling the Park, buying clothes, whether or not I can leave my business in Constantinople for six months or whether I need to send Gregor back there to supervise… And taking you to bed.’
‘Oh!’ Lina dragged the cushion out from behind her back and threw it at Quinn. It hit him in the chest and he laughed and rolled with it, sprawling back on to the carpet, over six feet of elegant, desirable, hard man spread at her feet for the taking.
‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before,’ he said, sitting up again without using his arms.
His stomach muscles must be like iron, Lina thought. ‘Because it is a ridiculous idea. I have no intention of sitting at home, sewing a fine seam, dusting your library and bringing up the children while you career off around the world with Gregor. Marriage ought to be a partnership.’ Children. Our children. She could almost see them.
‘Ah, yes, you want love in marriage, do you not?’
‘Yes,’ she said, staring back into the amused green eyes.
‘And you will either have to lie to the man you love or lose him,’ Quinn observed.
‘Why are men such hypocrites about sex?’ Lina demanded. ‘You are not a virgin.’ He grinned. ‘And that is not supposed to worry me.’
‘A man likes to know who the father of his children is,’ he observed. ‘And, yes, we’re hypocrites. Jealous and territorial. You would get the benefit of a great deal of experience and the knowledge that I’ll fight to the death for you.’
‘I wouldn’t want you to!’ It was a shamefully exciting thought, even as she denied it. ‘Even if you survive this idiotic duel you are intent on provoking. And as for experience, I am sure that is overrated.’ As soon as she said it she knew it was a provocation too far. Quinn looked at her through slitted eyes for a moment, then reached out, seized her wrists and pulled her out of the chair and down on top of him so they both ended up on the carpet with her on top.
Lina gasped, almost winded, her senses full of the impact of hard muscle and the scent of hot man, cigar smoke and brandy. He rolled before she could get free and she found herself trapped, his elbows on either side of her, his thighs bracketing hers and the very clear evidence of his arousal pressing into the junction of her thighs with devastating effect.
‘Get off! You said you do not force women—or doesn’t that count if they are not virgins?’ They were almost nose to nose. He had only to lower his head a few inches and he could take her mouth. Take anything.
‘It will not be force and I promise you will not end up any less of a virgin than you are now,’ Quinn said. ‘Don’t you want to know what you are turning down?’ He angled his head and trailed his tongue-tip along the line of her jaw. ‘Give me one minute and then, if you want to, say no. How dangerous can one minute be?’
‘Lethal,’ Lina said, trying not to pant.
‘Sixty seconds. Start counting.’ His mouth covered hers and his tongue slid between her lips, opening them, opening her, to heat and moisture and the taste of him.
One, two, three… He tasted of brandy and spice and what must be just himself and the thrust of his…five, six…tongue was blatant and demanding and her own tongue met it, licked against it, tangled…nine, ten…found the hardness of his teeth, found the soft inside of his cheek…twelve. Oh, I cannot…fourteen. His hand was moving, she felt buttons give way and long fingers probing the bandaging around her breasts.
Quinn gave a grunt of frustration, freed her mouth and lifted off her enough to tear open every button on the long silk coat. Twenty, twenty-one… He dug under his own coat at the back and produced a slim knife. ‘Keep still.’ Her heart thudded as the blade glinted in the candlelight. It slid, warm from his body, between skin and wrappings, then slashed up and he was peeling them back, exposing her to his hot, intent gaze.
Thirty? It was difficult to concentrate, to count. Lina stirred, restless, pressing up against the hard length that promised so much, that her hands ached to caress, and he growled, deep in his throat, tossed the knife aside and bent to lave her breasts with his tongue. Twenty-nine…no, thirty…thirty-four?