Page 8 of Winter's Waltz
His hands were on her upper arms now, and though his grip was firm, it was not punishing. Still, she could not escape him without doing him further damage, and she found herself reluctant to knee him in the ballocks. Gen was not certain why. Ordinarily, ruthlessness suited her. It was far preferable to weakness.
She had been weak once, long ago, when she had been too young to protect herself.
It had nearly been the end of her.
Never again.
“I am wounded.” His stare was on her lips, his head lowering to hers, his voice deep and intimate, taking on a tone she imagined he reserved for his lovers. “Have you no mercy, empress?”
Empress.
She truly ought to rethink her lenience regarding her knee and his whore pipe.
“None for you,” she told him. “Now go. There can be no lessons between us which require a bedchamber.”
His golden-brown gaze darkened. The rapscallion’s grin returned to his lips. “Oh, but there can be.”
Her pulse fluttered. Something inside her which had been asleep woke. Her desire. The part of herself that was decidedly female.
Suddenly, his scent seemed to coil around her, rather in the fashion of a serpent. He smelled of citrus and bay. Fancy fragrances. Scents that spoke of his station. Although his papa the duke had cut off his purse strings, Lord Sundenbury was still an aristocrat. A man who had never known a moment of strife. A man who had never known the pangs of hunger in his belly, the icy fear of dread on the streets, the terror of wondering when someone would attack him in his sleep.
A reminder, that scent.
Her nostrils flared. “Get out, or I will spill more of your blood before the morning is over, Blunderbury.”
His lips thinned. “Sundenbury. But you may call me Max. All my friends do. Foes, as well.”
She was not a simpleton. The man was repeating her words, albeit in different fashion. “Max,” she agreed, pleasantly enough. “Now do get the bloody hell out of my room.”
He made a clucking sound with his tongue and shook his head. “I shall not shirk my duty in such egregious fashion. Our first lesson begins now, empress. That is why I am here, is it not?”
Did he mean here in her gaming hell or here in her chamber? In her bed?
Gen pursed her lips. “You are here by the grace of my goodwill.”
“And mine. Do you truly believe most gentlemen would be eager to attempt to teach a bloodletting hellion such as yourself how to be a proper lady? That is the stuff of a governess, my dear. And not even a governess worth her weight in gold would take on such a lost cause.”
“A lost cause, am I?” She raised a brow. “Mayhap I am. But I do not see much difference between us, Blunderbury. You are hiding in the East End to try to redeem yourself from years of playing the wastrel. I, however, am aiming to do something worthwhile.”
“Hmm.” His gaze dipped to her breasts once more.
“My face is not down there, lordling,” she growled.
How dare he insult her as a lost cause and then ogle her bosom? If he weren’t holding her in a manacle-like grip, she would have planted him another facer. Broken his beautiful beak for good.
Would he be as sinfully handsome with a crooked nose?
Yes, whispered a voice within. A voice she silenced.
“My favorite shade of pink,” he said.
He was talking about her nipples, the rakehell. And instead of blasting him in the lordly splendor as she should, a wave of pleasure settled over her like a cloak. “You are impertinent, rude, and lingering where you do not belong.”
“I was referring to the flush on your cheeks, empress. But do go on.”
The flush he referred to went hotter still.
“Out, Blunderbury.” She tugged, but his grip remained firm.
