Lord only knows what sort of man your ancestor was—he may very well have been the most evil fellow around. And it certainly doesn’t mean anything about your character. That is something that you make yourself, and from the things I have heard, you have not done a very good job of it.”
“You dare—” Ravenscar looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Good God, if you were a man, I’d call you out for that.” He moved even closer, glaring down into her face.
“Another supremely silly thing to bring up, since I obviously am not,” Miranda pointed out, standing her ground. She was not about to let him intimidate her by looming over her this way. Her temper was up, and she was enjoying herself. This man deserved to be taken down a peg or two, and she was quite happy to be the one to do so. Lifting her chin defiantly, she glared back at him, only inches away from his face.
“You impudent little—” Ravenscar broke off his words, and suddenly his hands went around her arms like steel. He jerked her up and into him, and his mouth came down on hers.
Miranda stood stock-still for a moment, unable to move. She had never been treated like this before in her life, handled so roughly or kissed so thoroughly. No other man would have had the arrogance—or the courage. Indignation shot through her. But at the same time, every fiber in her being thrilled to the sensations that coursed through her. His mouth was hot and demanding, and the taste of it intoxicated her. His lips pressed into hers, fervent, velvety, searing. Then his tongue was in her mouth, invading her. A tremor of excitement shot through her, a vibration that sizzled down every nerve ending in her body in a way that she had never experienced—indeed, had never even imagined existed.
An ache started low in her abdomen, warm and pulsing, insistent. She sagged against him, lost in the heat and pleasure, her anger and indignation burned away by the desire that swept through her. Her breasts felt full and soft, the nipples prickling with longing, and she was aware that she wanted to feel his hands on them, to have him touch her everywhere. She shuddered, her moan swallowed by his voracious mouth.
Then, suddenly, shockingly, his mouth was gone from hers. He pulled back and looked down into her passion-softened face. His eyes glittered, green as glass.
“There,” he muttered huskily, his hands falling away from her arms. “Now you know what you could have had but were too much a fool to take.”
His caustic words cut through the haze of pleasure, and Miranda’s spine stiffened. Anger and a fierce self-dislike seized her. She lifted her hand and slapped him hard.
“Get out,” she snapped. “Get out of this house, and never show your face here again.”
“With great pleasure,” he responded sardonically and turned on his heel to stride out of the room.
Miranda’s knees were suddenly too weak to stand, and she sank down in the nearest chair. Dear God, what had just happened?
In an instant her whole life had been turned upside down. She coursed with fury and indignation and a fire that was completely new to her. Her hand stung from slapping him. She was glad she had; she wished he were back here so she could slap him again. At the same time, her insides felt jumbled and hot and hungry, and she wanted to feel again the pleasure that had surged in her when he kissed her.
The man was arrogant and rude—no, he was beyond arrogant and rude; he was something so irritating and provoking that she could not think of a name for it. She hated him, and she hated him all the more because she had thrilled so to his kiss. She had weakly wanted to lean against him, had wantonly wished that the kiss would go on and on forever. She had enjoyed it, even though everything in her screamed not to. She had wanted him with a fierce and urgent ache that she had never felt for any other man. And it was infuriating that he had made her feel that way quite against her will.
The man was the very devil, she thought, and she hoped that she would never have to see him again. But, no, she realized immediately, that was not true. She hoped she would see him again—and soon—so that she could tell him exactly how much she despised him!
Devin strode down the street, his feet keeping pace with the rapid tumbling of his brain. The nerve of the wench! To slap him, to tell him he was not good enough to be her husband! Who did she think she was? He was an Aincourt of Darkwater, and she was a nobody, puffed up in importance just because her father had made a pile of gold selling animal skins—as if that made her anyone of consequence!
He thought of a dozen scathing things he should have said to her. He should have told her how little her refusal of his proposal had meant to him. He had not wanted to ask her to marry him in the first place—he had only done it because everyone kept hounding him to. He should have pointed out to her that she was no prize for any man, least of all an earl. But, damnation, she had felt so soft and yielding against him. And her lips had tasted of honey, and the scent of roses that clung to her had filled his nostrils in the most delightful, heady way.
He let out a growl of frustration, startling a passerby and making the man move quickly to the opposite side of the street. It seemed too bizarre, too absurd, that she could possibly be the fetching woman who had rescued him last night. He had been in his cups, of course, and he’d had only a hazy memory of the woman’s face, but he’d remembered those wide, expressive gray eyes and the way they had lit with laughter and excitement. How could she have been the same person as that drab, infuriating creature he had forced himself to propose to this afternoon?
It had been the woman from last night who had responded to his kiss. He had felt the warmth and excitement in her, the same passion that yesterday had sent her flying into the midst of a fray. He smiled a little as he thought about the kiss, remembering the warmth of her lips, the sweet eagerness. He wasn’t sure why he had done it—he had wanted to get back at her in some way. She had been so infuriating, so cold and controlled, so contemptuous of him, that he had wanted to show her that he had the upper hand. And he had done so, despite the slap. The slap only showed how much he had struck a nerve with her; he suspected that she was more furious at herself for responding than anything else.
He knew, too, that he could make her respond again. Hell, if he put an effort into it, he could make her fall in love with him. Devin knew that he could be charming. There had been many women over the years who had succumbed to that charm—even some who most people would have said were far too circumspect to have anything to do with a rake such as Devin Aincourt. Generally, he simply did not make the effort to woo a woman who resisted him; there were too many others who were quite happy to climb into his bed…and there was, of course, Leona, who always retained first hold on his affections.
But this time, he thought, this time it just might be worth the trouble. So the American wench thought that he was poor husband material…. Any other proposal would be better than his. He wondered how she would feel about that after a few days of determined wooing. The smile that touched his lips at that thought was not pleasant. He would be charming and attentive; he would seduce her with great care and tenderness. It wouldn’t be difficult, not with the kind of passion that he had felt in her this afternoon. And when he had her deeply in love with him, telling him that she wanted more than anything to marry him…well, then he would smile and say that he was sorry, he never offered more than once.
Just the thought of the scene brought him a great feeling of satisfaction. He was, he thought, a wicked man at heart, just as Leona had said last night. Breaking the American chit’s heart had a great deal more appeal for him than marrying her.
He changed the direction of his path, heading now for his sister’s town house, a stately white affair that took up most of a block in Mayfair. The footman knew him and merely bowed as Devin walked past him and took the stairs to his sister’s sitting room upstairs. He was relieved to find her alone rather than receiving callers, frowning over a framed circle of needlework.
She looked up at the sound of his footsteps, and a smile broke across her face. “Dev!” She rose quickly to her feet and started toward him, holding out both her hands. “I am so happy to see you—although I should scold you for what you did last night, or, I should say, didn’t do. It was terribly embarrassing. I felt a fool trying to tell Miss Upshaw that you were really a very