Lessons from a Scandalous Bride by Sophie Jordan Page B

to entertain . . .”
    He frowned, looking rather disappointed with her. “I don’t care about the circumstances of your birth. We’re both seeking the same thing. Why not choose each other?”
    No words could have struck terror to her heart with more speed. She wiggled free of him, heedless of the delicious friction it created between their bodies.
    With a growl, he grabbed hold of her wrist and forced her back around to face him. If possible, they now stood even closer than before. His arms came up to wrap around her, his hands warm and all-encompassing against her spine. The temptation to soak up his touch, lean into him like a purring cat was cruelly beguiling.
    She struggled against this—against him. He was a brick wall. Immovable. Overwhelming. She was again reminded why virile, muscular men were so repellent to her. She loathed this sensation of being somehow fragile and easily broken. Prey for a man who could use her and crush her if she left herself vulnerable. Her mother’s face flashed before her eyes, older and more weary than her actual years, broken and defeated.
    Not me. Never me.
    “Hold still,” he bit out.
    She ceased her struggles and glared up at him. A lock of hair fell into her face, waving like a flag in the wind before her eyes. She blew at it and shook her head, trying to force it back.
    His gaze scanned her, devouring her face, missing nothing. “What are you so afraid of?”
    The question landed like a perfectly targeted arrow, quivering throughout her body.
    “N-nothing,” she quickly denied.
    “You’re lying. I see the fear in your eyes.”
    “Perhaps your unwanted attentions alarm me.”
    “I alarm you, but not because you don’t want me.”
    “Your arrogance knows no bounds.”
    “Are you afraid of getting hurt? Is that it?”
    Was she that transparent then? Blast! She clamped her lips shut, determined to say nothing else that confirmed his suspicions.
    His eyes narrowed on her face. A muscle feathered tensely across his tight jaw. He looked dangerous and she was reminded how little she knew of this man.
    Mentally, she recounted what little she knew of him that she could call fact. He hailed from the Highlands. He possessed a crumbling castle. He used a knife to cut through the stays of ladies’ gowns.
    And she trembled with desire in his arms. Fact.
    “Has someone hurt you before?” he pressed, his eyes darkening.
    Her eyes widened. He thought someone had ravished her?
    “No,” she quickly assured, mortification sweeping over her. She hadn’t lived the perfect childhood, but no one had hurt her in that manner. “Nothing like that.”
    “But there is something that puts fear in your eyes.”
    She silently cursed her slip and the implication that she was frightened. “What you call fear is modesty and good sense.” She moistened her lips. “I’ve set my cap for the earl and ask that you respect that.”
    “Why? Is it his title? I know a Scottish title isn’t the same as an English one, but a life as my wife would—”
    “Wife?” she echoed. He’d only spoken of courtship. This was the first time he had dared utter the word wife . And blast her defiant heart if she didn’t experience a small thrill . . . if her blood didn’t rush just a little bit faster in her veins.
    “I’ve a mind to wed you.” His deep voice shot through her like a bolt of lightning. His eyes studied her intently, watching her reaction.
    Masculinity rippled off him in waves. Altogether he presented no minor temptation. The same trap her mother and countless other women had fallen into yawned before her. Would she be strong enough to resist?
    He stared at her for a long moment, his hands flexing over her arms. “I came to London to find a wife.”
    “An heiress,” she quickly corrected.
    Something shuttered over his eyes. He didn’t like the reminder, which was why she’d made it, determined to wedge a wall between them. He didn’t want her. Not fully, at any rate. If she