Chapter 53

He remained where he was, his eyes inches from hers, probably still liquid warm. He certainly was, his breath stuck somewhere at the back of his throat for what seemed an eternity.
"I-"
"Lord Hawley, about-about me helping you-"
His throat tightened, so his breath came in tattered rags. "Miss Armstrong, when a moment's so perfect-"
"Perfect?"
"Yes, perfect."
Because it was. Well, apart from one moment there where he damn well nearly forgot to do a certain thing. So now, now when images still rocketed through his head of her, of him, of everything they'd done--must have--for him to so nearly forget, she just had to start, didn't she? This demand. That demand. Jab. Jab. Jab. Like a seamstress sewing a seam. In his brain. About where this went from here. Well, he couldn't hear it. He was done in hearing it. This was every bit as impossible enough as it was. Must she make it even worse for him when all told he was just managing to keep this together as he'd tried to keep the last ten years together, the days, the weeks, the sad sum and substance of his life, always, always with a struggle, because he'd owned so little of it. With a muttered curse, he sat up.
"You should learn not to spoil it with petty demands. Trivia about what you will and won't do. When what you've almost made me do-"
Now it was her turn to tear a breath, difficult for him to hear when his heart thudded like a hammer drowning out everything and he struggled to breathe.
"I'm sorry? As I recall I never said a-"
He kicked the covers loose from the bed. In another second he'd sweat and he couldn't. "But maybe that's as well since you never let me finish."
"Finish?"
"What I was about to say before you pounced."
"I pounced? What do you mean I-"
A joke surely? Which was why her lips creased, although he swore she lost what little connection she had to reality in that second. A thought that gave him as muchpleasure as shoving red-hot spikes through his palms. He must take this back. Not fall a victim to her here. Wasn't she to blame for all of this? And still she beguiled him?
"If I can't have my pleasures with you, then I'll just take them elsewhere. So whether we do this again, or not, is no odds to me."
Take them elsewhere? No odds to him? He didn't know what he was damn well saying, just that however this had started out, what cut to the very core of his being, and beyond--right into his heart--was where it finished. She wanted him. She didn't want him. She played with him. Well, she played with fire.
But maybe, maybe she'd give him something to remind him, when everything disintegrated around him, including himself, that what was beguiling could still play straight? Face him with something other than cool indifference and that couldn't give a damn expression? That scornful chin tilt too as if he was madder than a hatter.
"Then you must hope she will look after you, Lord Hawley, and put up with all your damned nonsense during the night." She slid off the bed.
"Fine then. Because it's more than you do."
Did she freeze behind her eyelashes? Think of how she'd helped him? Hadn't slept in nights? Because, for all he sat here day after day, the epitome of cool, it was a cool he mustered.
"Good," she said. "Because you've no idea how much I like my bed to myself."
He stood up and wrapped the bed sheet around him. "Your bed? It's my bed. But let's not quibble about so minor a detail when you've already stolen ... " He cursed beneath his breath.
"Go on, say it."
His gaze swept her, for a moment too long. What flickered in that second, flickered along his veins, was the chance to tell her, everything. He could, couldn't he? So just maybe, at last, she'd understand why he was the way he was. He tilted his jaw, fixed his gaze on wall behind her, parted his lips.
"Now that would be telling."

***

Telling? As the door shut, Cass stared at the ceiling. Ruby ... Ruby was right wasn't she? About her. About him. She wasn't made for this. In any way. She'd just thought she was there just now, when she'd been about to tell him, she'd help him whatever. She'd been ready to open her heart to him. No point saying otherwise. And she'd thought her legs were bad enough. Was she mad?
She glanced sideways. The faintest glint of gold in the candlelight caught the corner of her eye. Not a tear. No, just because she could cry, didn't mean she would. God, no. Anyway what was there to cry about except her own stupidity. His things were all of the best. Even his blasted damned cufflinks. And look at that one lying there where he'd been a few seconds ago, so potently she could still smell his imprint on the sheets, imagine the warmth of his skin, breathe the heady scent that was him.She reached forward, picked it up. Held it between her thumb and forefinger to the candle flame. Pure, fine gold. She'd always been the best judge of that. Everything else, too, but gold especially. Worth? A tidy sum.
The beauty of it was she'd sworn never to steal again. But this must have fallen out of his dressing gown pocket. Snapping her hand shut, she squeezed tight. Squeezed until it wasn't just droplets of sweat that formed in her palm.
Opening her palm she examined her handiwork. This wasn't stealing. This wasn't even another scar to add to all those she already had. This was something that was hers to control in all this mess. Vital when she hadn't completed her search.