Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] by Lord of Wicked Intentions Page B

do it because she refused to swoon. It was bad enough that he had witnessed her unconscionably weak and falling apart.
    She concentrated on the fire. But even it seemed to have grown smaller in submission.
    “Here, you’ll find this will warm you more efficiently than tea.”
    A large hand holding a thick tumbler came into her field of vision, very nearly kissing her nose. Long, thick, powerful fingers. She imagined they could wrap easily around her neck and choke the life from her body. Inhaling, she recognized the scent.
    “Do you think Scotch is the remedy for all ills?”
    “You’d be surprised by the answers you can find in the bottom of a bottle. Take it.”
    It was not an invitation, so much as a command. As much as she didn’t want to obey, she knew she needed to pick her battles. Keeping her hands steady, she set the teacup and saucer on the small table beside the chair, then took the offered glass.
    She’d ignored the contents earlier in the evening when he’d given her a tumbler. This time she took a small sip. It burned, but he was right. It also warmed as it went down, the heat spreading out to her fingertips.
    He moved away, placed himself by the fireplace, rested his forearm on the mantel. She wondered if he was as cold as she after their journey in the rain. His hair was much curlier now, as though he’d not bothered to tame it. His white shirt was loosely fitting, buttoned only to midchest. Black trousers fit snuggly over his legs. His boots were polished to a shine, and she thought he would see his reflection in them if he glanced down.
    Instead, his gaze was focused intently on her. He, too, was holding a tumbler, and when she lifted hers to take another sip, he did the same, his eyes never straying from her. He was a large man. She had felt his corded muscles beneath her fingers, pressed against her body, as he’d carried her here. He’d never paused his rapid steps. He’d never struggled for breath. He’d seemed unbothered by the pelting rain.
    She suspected he was a man very much accustomed to having his way. And he wanted his way with her.
    “I’ll fight you, you know,” she said. “I shall kick and scream and claw out your eyes.”
    She thought she saw a twinkle of humor light those very eyes that would feel the scrape of her fingernails, but it happened so quickly she couldn’t be sure. His throat worked as he took another long slow swallow of his Scotch. She couldn’t recall ever seeing so much of a man exposed: his neck, the narrowing V of skin down his chest. She saw strength there, potency that Geoffrey didn’t possess. Neither had her father. Before his illness, his form had been robust but it had not exuded power. Food, rather than anything of an exertive nature, had shaped him. Rafe Easton obviously did not lie around all day doing nothing more than ordering servants about.
    “I’m not in the habit of forcing women, Evelyn,” he finally said. “But I am pragmatic. If you do not become my mistress, what recourse is open to you?”
    Ah, there was the rub and well he knew it. She fought not to let her shoulders slump with her despair. “He didn’t let me take anything, not even the jewelry my father gave me. I could have sold it—”
    “And how far do you think you would have gotten with it?”
    She shook her head, hating to admit, “I don’t even know where I would have sold it.”
    “With me,” he said, “you will have a roof over your head, food in your belly, a clothing allowance to rival the queen’s, as well as jewelry, trinkets, baubles. You will never want for anything that is within my power to purchase.”
    “But I must give you my body.”
    Another long swallow of Scotch, a slow nod, a half closing of his eyes in acknowledgment.
    She was suddenly unbearably cold again. She took a big gulp of her drink, but it failed to warm her. “I want a husband, a family.”
    “How do you expect to acquire that? By sitting out on the street in your hideous black