Ruthless by Anne Stuart

even greater advantage. “There’s no reason that would happen. You have nothing to gain by spreading such vile rumors.”
    â€œThey aren’t rumors, my pet. It’s the simple truth. As for what I have to gain, I’m afraid you put far too low a price on your charms. I’ve told you, you’re a rarity in these parts, and I find myself reluctantly fascinated.”
    â€œListen to your reluctance,” she said briskly. “I’m not worth the trouble. And charming though this conversation is, I need to get home and see to my mother.”
    â€œBut what if I don’t want to let you go? You can hardly walk all the way back to the city, and you continue to fascinate me.” He flicked an imaginary speck off the snowy-white shirt he wore.
    He moved closer, and she moved back, surreptitiously, putting the chair between them with a casual air. Not that she seriously distrusted him—this was a game he was playing, nothing more. Like a great hungry tomcat playing with a little white mouse. Or so he thought.
    â€œI’ve walked more than five miles before, I can do it now.”
    â€œIn bare feet?” he said pointedly.
    She immediately crouched so that her threadbare skirts covered her feet.
    â€œNow, that distresses me,” he said. “You have quite lovely feet. Most women have fat little toes and broad feet. And dancers—God help me, they have the ugliest feet of all. But you really have exquisite…”
    â€œI would appreciate it if you would stop rhapsodizing over my anatomy and summon a carriage,” she said, mortified. He might well have been talking about her breasts, and she wondered what else he’d been observing in such a familiar manner.
    â€œYour hands,” he said, startling her. “You’re quite ridiculously easy to read. You were wondering what I was going to go on about next. I’m quite fascinated by your hands.”
    She immediately tucked her hands into her shawl, but he wasn’t deterred. “They don’t look particularly soft. Not the plump, white, useless hands most women have. You have long, beautiful fingers, narrow palms, and yet there’s strength in those hands. I rather think I want to feel them on my body.”
    She let out a hiss of breath, ridiculously, undeniably shocked. So shocked she forgot to move as he came closer. Dangerously close. “Don’t look so horrified, sweeting. Surely you didn’t mistake my interest in you as any humanitarian behavior on my part. I don’t give a damn if your mother dies, and I don’t let myself be distracted from my activities unless there’s something I want more. That would be you.”
    She stared at him. “And how long have you suffered this disorder of the brain, my lord?”
    â€œAnd how long have you disregarded your worth, Miss Harriman?” he replied.
    Six years, she could have told him. But she didn’t. That time was over, long forgotten, and she didn’t have to think about it.
    He was playing a game with her—he’d alreadyadmitted he was very good at games, and she’d seen the women who surrounded him. “If you will please summon your housekeeper I have no doubt she’ll be able to retrieve my shoes and then I’ll be on my way.” Her manner was brisk and practical, the perfect counterpoint to his absurdly seductive manner. To prove her point she rose to her full height again, exposing her bare feet.
    â€œMiss Harriman, are you possibly so unwise as to call my bluff?” he asked, his voice silken.
    â€œCertainly not, Monsieur le Comte. I simply choose not to play this little game of yours.” There was a bellpull by the door, and she crossed the room and yanked it.
    She half expected him to come after her. To catch her hand as she reached for the bellpull, to pull her into his arms, tight against his body, as he had last night.
    He took one step toward her, and then halted,