Regency Surrender: Ruthless Rakes. Bronwyn Scott

kindness to bind her to him. She dragged the brush through her tangles, feeling more in charge with each brushstroke, more like herself. Regardless of what anyone said, appearances mattered, even when one was only wearing a shirt, or perhaps especially when one was wearing only a shirt. It was already noon and the clock was ticking. How much time did she have before her freedom ran out?

      There were voices in the other room and the clatter of dishes. Breakfast was here. She couldn’t hide in the bedroom any longer. It was time to go out and beard the proverbial lion in his den. For that she needed a strategy, or, better yet, she’d just borrow his tactics. He wanted her to like him. Was that such a bad idea? Wouldn’t she, too, be served by the concept of liking? Maybe being friends was the preferred strategy here. After all, friends did things for one another and there were things she needed doing before she could leave Venice, before she could truly be free. Who better to do them for her than her new friend, Nolan Gray?

      Be careful, her conscience whispered, that you don’t do this because it’s easy. You want to like him and this gives you an excuse. This was your mother’s downfall, she liked attractive men and they all failed her in the end. Nolan Gray might have fished you out of the canal, but he also won you in a card game. How good could a man be who’d entertain such a wager? That was the problem. She didn’t know. But at the moment he was all she had. She did feel a twinge of guilt over what she meant to do. But if he was a gambler, he’d understand. A girl had to use her resources and take her chances where she found them.

      The smell of coffee greeted her as she stepped into the other room, feeling conspicuous in Nolan’s shirt when he was fully attired in shirt and waistcoat, breeches and boots. In truth, the shirt covered far more of her than the nightgown had, but then, the playing field had been more equitable when they’d both been in nightwear. But Nolan rose, playing the gentleman, only his eyes betraying his appreciation of her apparel. He was good at hiding his emotions.

      ‘Coffee?’ He poured her a cup and passed it to her with a smile. ‘There’s toast and butter, a pot of jam, if you like. Help yourself.’ He’d left the sofa empty for her, perhaps anticipating the difficulties of sitting in a shirt. She ended curled up on that sofa, her legs tucked under her, the shirttails tucked modestly about her, and a plate of toast balanced on her lap.

      It was a cosy position and she was struck by the domestic tranquillity of their breakfast. Nearby, flames popped occasionally in the fireplace. Nolan sat easy in his chair, one booted leg crossed over the other, his own plate balanced on a knee. Beyond him the light of the grey day filtered through the windows. It was a perfect day for staying inside. If they’d been lovers, perhaps they would have. But Nolan’s attire suggested he at least had other plans.

      She took a bite of toast smothered in jam, aware of him studying her. She readied herself. He was going to launch his next salvo. But when it came it wasn’t the question she’d expected.

      Nolan took a swallow of coffee and said with all the casualness of someone who was asking about the weather, ‘So, what kind of man sells his daughter’s virginity? And don’t say a desperate one because I already know that.’

       Chapter Seven

      ‘What kind of man buys it?’ she countered, fixing him with her brave hazel gaze. This woman backed down from nothing. She was as confident sitting on the sofa in his borrowed shirt as she was in Venice’s finest ballrooms in a gown worth a fortune. It might be said that clothes made the man. In this case, it was confidence that made the woman. She wore it well, but Nolan was hardly about to come undone over a direct gaze and one uncomfortable question. He was far too experienced for that.

      ‘Oh, no, you don’t.’ Nolan set aside his plate and took the offensive. Part of him was glad to see she was willing to put up a fight. Still, she would find he was not as easily played as all that. ‘You do not get to answer a question with a question and you absolutely do not get to make me the villain in this scenario.’

      ‘There can be more than one villain,’ she replied coolly.

      ‘There may be, but they are not me. I was your best choice at that table.’

      ‘Were you? That’s an arrogant statement.’

      ‘I did not ravish you. You are still in possession of your virginity,’ Nolan pointed out, enumerating his evidence on his fingers. ‘I doubt the other men at the table would have allowed you to keep it. Secondly, and more importantly, you are still in possession of the choice regarding who to give that particular feminine jewel to. Thirdly, I offered to set you free of the wager.’ He was well aware she had artfully manoeuvred him into defending himself. This was not what he wanted to discuss. He wanted to discuss the count and whatever arrangement she had with that blackguard.

      She arched a dark eyebrow over her coffee, unimpressed with his accomplishments. ‘You are a veritable saint.’

      ‘Does that make you the martyr in this scenario, then? We’re quite the pair, the martyr and the saint.’ In all likelihood they were both liars, hardly candidates for such religious monikers. She wasn’t forced to play the suffering victim. He’d given her the choice and heaven knew he wasn’t anywhere near a saint when it came to her. She’d been stunning in his white shirt when she’d entered the room, the tails skimming the tops of her knees, leaving her long, slim legs bare to his gaze, urging a man to run up their length until they disappeared beneath the fabric and the eye was drawn to the curve of hip visible only to the discerning eye beneath the fine linen, and above that, the slope and swell of her breasts, provocative reminders that every inch of her was naked beneath his shirt.

      He had to get this conversation back on track before his mind and body decided he didn’t need to play the gentleman. He could have her, he could seduce a ‘yes’ right out of her, right now, an hour at most and they could both be enjoying that big bed in the other room. But in the long run, that wasn’t what he wanted. There would be no thrill in conning her into sex. He wasn’t sixteen any more, cajoling a lonely widow into bed just to see if he could do it. These days, the more sophisticated thrill was in the choice, in being chosen.

      Nolan recrossed his legs and tried a different tack. ‘You are only protecting him with your refusal to answer. I confess to finding that a rather odd strategy to adopt on behalf of someone who sold you against your will.’ Nolan feigned nonchalance and reached for another piece of toast.

      ‘If I were in your position, I’d be furious. I’d want revenge.’ He looked up from buttering the bread and knew a moment of sweet victory. He had shocked her. She was trying to hide it, but it was there in the stillness of her body. It was funny how people found the truth shocking, their own truths even more so when repeated back to them. ‘Is that why you want to stay? Do you think I will help you with your revenge?’ He took a self-satisfied crunch of his toast. He’d hit the target.

      ‘It’s not revenge, exactly. I just want what is mine.’ Sweet Heavens, the man was a mind reader. If she’d been a target, he’d have hit the bullseye and she didn’t like it one bit. He would be so much harder to manipulate if he knew what she was up to. She knew now that she’d been naïve last night when she’d thought her luck might be changing. But, no, she’d managed to be won by the only mind-reading card player in Venice, a man who could see right through her, linen shirt and all. And he was looking. He had been since she’d entered the room. He might not have ravished her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested. A smart woman would use that to her advantage. He might be a mind reader, but he was still a man.

      ‘I couldn’t possibly consider leaving Venice without that which is mine.’ She dropped her eyes at the last moment, a gesture that was demure and well practised from hours in front of the mirror, designed for precisely this sort of situation. She didn’t want this disclosure to be a challenge, she wanted it to be...compelling. She counted silently in her head. One, two, three, four...come on, bite.

      ‘Why would you leave Venice?’ Nolan said at last.

      That was the wrong bite. She wanted to scream.