“I can’t think why,” Raven’s tone was drier than the Sahara. “It sounds fascinating.”
“The word ‘sarcasm,’ for example,” she continued, warming to her theme, “comes from the Greek word‘sarcophagus,’which literally means to tear the flesh. As in to cut someone with your verbal barbs.”
“Have I drawn your blood, Hellcat?”
“Hardly,” she snorted. “I’d have to care about your opinion for it to hurt me.”
He feigned a wince. “Ouch. But I heard you’ve had other offers, despite that cutting tongue of yours. What about Wilton?”
Heloise stilled. How did he know about that? Lord Wilton had only proposed last week.
Raven cleared his throat. “He’s a good man.”
“Yes. He is.”
There were a hundred reasons why she should accept Lord Wilton’s suit. Hewasa good man. Kind, wealthy, even-tempered, only slightly older than herself. He even shared her interest in Egyptology. She’d been trying to get an invitation to study his collection of New Kingdom papyri for years.
Unfortunately, the one reason she couldn’t marry Lord Wilton was standing right next to her; six foot two inches of pure heartache. Heloise suppressed a sigh. Unrequited love was so aggravating.
She’d actually researched the definition of “requited” once. It should, logically, mean the opposite of “unrequited”—namely, returned. Not so. “Requited” meant revenged or retaliated. That summed up their strange, quarrelsome relationship perfectly; a simmering attraction tinged with mutual animosity. A war of attrition neither could win.
“I suppose I should be grateful to get any offers at all,” she said, focusing her attention on the dancers. “Most of my suitors cried off after my accident. But Collingham’s so desperate for my dowry, he’s willing to overlook my scarred face. Wilton, on the other hand, thinks that because I avoid society I won’t bankrupt him by buying the latest fashions and hosting lavish parties.”
The strange thing was, she’d long ago stopped resenting her scar for curtailing her marriage prospects. She had no desire for a husband—unless it was Raven—and she was glad to avoid a society that revered the frivolous and distained her scholarly pursuits as freakish and unfashionable.
“Speaking of marriage proposals, what about you?” she said. “Haven’tyouever thought about taking a wife?”
“Constantly,” he drawled. “Whose did you have in mind?”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “You know what I mean.”
He’d probably already had half the married women in here, she thought morosely. The man was a menace. He just crooked his finger and they came running, lured by all that lazy, dangerous charm. She really ought to stop flirting and tell him about the message. “Come to think of it, forget I asked. You’d make an appalling husband.”
“My thoughts exactly. Which is why I’ve no intention of ever entering the married state. Marriage is a prison. And speaking as someone who’s had intimate knowledge of imprisonment, I can say with authority that anything that endangers one’s personal liberty is to be strictly avoided.”
Heloise stilled. Raven rarely volunteered information about his time as a captive. Six years ago he’d been abducted by a London gang seeking to blackmail his grandfather, the Duke of Avondale. While the duke had stalled and negotiated, Raven had escaped, but only after weeks of imprisonment. The experience had changed him. Now his eyes held a fathomless, haunted look, as if he’d faced the darkest levels of hell and emerged…if not unscathed, at least wiser and more cynical. And he still refused to forgive his grandfather.
Heloise tossed her head. She was determined to enjoy herself, and nothing was more fun than baiting Raven. It was rather like poking a wolf with a stick; dangerous, but undeniably thrilling. She cast around for some way to taunt him, as he’d teased her earlier with that ridiculous almost-kiss, and hit on the very thing.
“You asked what I’m doing here. If you must know, I’m using you.”
“Oh, really?” his tone was highly skeptical.
“Yes. I thought I’d take the opportunity to show my suitors a little healthy competition.”
He snorted. “You’ll need a better plan, then. Nobody knows who you are under that mask except me.”
Drat. She’d forgotten about that. Still, she couldn’t resist trying to needle him. She racked her brains for something suitably shocking. “All right, then. The truth is, I thought I might take a lover.”
She prayed he’d choke on his champagne, but he merely lifted an intrigued eyebrow.
“Anyone I know?”
“I’m considering you.”
He didn’t even bat an eyelid, the swine. “Me?Interesting.”
She hated it when he used that word. He managed to imbue it with a hundred shades of inferred meaning, none of them good.