“I thought you were going to find a woman,” she mumbled, her words almost so indiscernible that he could hardly hear them.
“Say that again?”
“I’d rather not.”
He grinned now, inordinately pleased. She was jealous — not that she wanted to admit it.
“I really didn’t hear you,” he lied.
She glared up at him, her eyes shooting daggers.
“I said that I thought you were going to town to find a woman.”
“And you thought to follow me… to do what?” He couldn’t help it. His body began to shake.
“Do not laugh at me!”
“I’m sorry,” he said, the mirth bubbling up through him and out his cracked lip. “I can’t help it.”
“It’s not funny!” she protested, her brow furrowed as she stared at him.
“Actually, it is.”
“How could that be possible?”
“Rebecca,” he said, reaching out and cupping her chin in his hand, careful not to allow any of his cuts to bloody her face. “Why would I go seek out another woman when I have one as beautiful as you currently residing in my house?”
She eyed him.
“Perhaps you were going to look for a woman with loose morals.”
He shook his head.
“I couldn’t — for another woman would never do, as I would only be picturing you.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t say such beautiful things to me.”
He tilted his head to study her. “You think my words are beautiful? That’s the first time anyone has said such a thing about me, I think. I usually bungle it all up.”
“I find,” she said, sitting up on her knees now and resting her elbows on his chest as he tried not to wince, “that if you say the simple truth of the matter, it works best.”
“I’ll remember that,” he said, smiling at her.
“Your face truly looks terrible,” she said with the smallest of smiles.
“Now those words are not particularly lovely,” he retorted.
“Who said I was trying to charm you?” she lifted an eyebrow, and her impish grin seemed to heal all of the pain that had emanated from his cuts and bruises moments ago.
He laughed. “You have charmed me without even trying.”
“So you think.”
At that moment, he wanted — no, needed — to kiss her. It didn’t matter that it might hurt. No pain could be worse than the restraint of keeping himself from her.
He lifted his hand around the back of her head, drawing it down toward him. She looked hesitant for a moment, focusing on what he knew must be his wreck of a face, but she relented, allowing him to pull her head down to his. Her kiss was tender, light, and just what he needed.
Until it wasn’t enough. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, then reached down to lift her onto the couch on top of him, so that she was straddling his lap. With enough pressure on her lips, he no longer felt any pain, for the pleasure and desire that coursed through him at her proximity chased it all away.
She, however, hadn’t forgotten.
“Am I not hurting you?”
“Far from it,” he said, pulling her closer toward him, needing her warmth, her healing presence. “You, Rebecca, could never hurt me.”
“I hardly think that’s true,” she said, her hands coming to his face, running over the cuts and bruises that he knew would only look worse tomorrow. “Does your head not hurt you? You must have taken quite the hit, though I wouldn’t know, for I didn’t stay to see it.”
“Oh, yes, you were running away by that point.”
“I could hardly watch you be beaten so.”
“Excuse me, but I believe I was the one doing just as much of the beating.”
“Which was equally hard to watch.”
He twined his fingers through her hair, pulling out the pins that he found holding it up on the back of her head, loving the silky tresses spiraling out over his hands. So soft, so sweet in comparison to his own brutishness.
“You care for me,” he stated, to which she set her lips in a firm line.
“I never said that.”
“But you do.”
“Perhaps I simply do not enjoy violence.”
He shrugged. “Be that as it may, you don’t seem overly concerned for Brown.”
“I shouldn’t be concerned for either of you.” She sighed. “For it was your own foolish decision to take part.”
He smirked at her as he drew her face closer toward him, her hair now floating freely about her shoulders.
“Admit you care,” he whispered in her ear.
“No,” she said, though her words came out near to a moan.
He began kissing his way down her neck, over the soft skin behind her perfectly formed ear.
“Say it,” he commanded softly.
“I’d rather not,” she said, but she arched her head to the side so that he could better access her neck.
He continued kissing a trail downward until finally, he reached the skin just above her bodice.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to?” he asked, teasing a finger over the material, inching it down ever so slowly. He circled her nipple with a finger but refused to give her what she wanted, despite the fact that she was arching her chest toward him, likely without even realizing she was doing so.
“Fine,” she finally bit out, her eyes nearly closed now, her head tilted slightly backward. “I care. A bit.”
He chuckled lowly at her stubbornness and refusal to tell him the full truth of it, but he relented, freeing her breast and tweaking the nipple between his fingers before lowering his mouth and tasting her.
She moaned, her sigh long and soft, stirring his loins in a way that no woman had in quite some time.
She shifted on his lap, and he nearly went wild in anticipation. He wanted her with a ferocity he could hardly put into words. Both the best and the worst part of it all? He could tell she felt the same.
For he knew he could have her right here and now.
But he was also very aware that he shouldn’t.
He couldn’t promise her anything beyond this moment in time. She was the daughter of an architect, a man of means, but not the means that Valentine was looking for. It made him feel like a whore himself at the fact that he was marrying for money, but he couldn’t see any other way around it.
Clearly, he wasn’t getting anywhere prizefighting anymore.
“What’s wrong?” she asked softly, her hands cupping his face.
“Nothing,” he said, chasing away the thoughts from his mind.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course,” he said. “What more could I ask for than the most beautiful woman I have ever seen writhing on my lap?”
“I am not writhing!”
“Oh, I would argue otherwise.”
She laughed then as she ran her hands over his face, feeling the broken bridge of his nose, his rough eyebrows, his prominent cheekbones.
He closed his eyes, giving himself over to her cooling touch.
“It’s not exactly a work of art,” he said, but when he opened his eyes he saw her shaking her head.
“I would argue otherwise,” she said. “Your face is one of character. One that tells a story. It’s what I love best about buildings such as Stonehall, which are hundreds of years old. This estate holds so much life within it that it speaks to me in a way others do not.”