Scandal of the Season by Christie Kelley Page A

the center of the room would barely fit two people unless they were snuggled close.
    And he could never sleep that close to her.
    The time he had spent alone with her in the carriage had almost done him in. He constantly let his gaze slide to her sweet face. His thoughts had stayed on her lips until he finally decided making conversation would eliminate the temptation. Not that their discussion helped, either.
    How could a woman who had gone through so much still look so innocent?
    “This will never do,” she said as she followed him into the room.
    “You have no say in the matter,” he replied a little too harshly. He understood her reason, but he would not sleep on a floor again. After spending five months without a decent bed most nights, he would sleep where he damn well pleased.
    “I have no choice?”
    “None at all. The bed is small but we shall manage.”
    “A gentleman would offer to sleep on the floor,” she said, placing her portmanteau on the floor. Folding her arms across her chest, she tapped her foot impatiently.
    He laughed softly. “Sweetheart, I am no gentleman.”
    “I learned that ten years ago,” she retorted with one brow arched.
    Anthony removed his greatcoat and then poked at the fire sending embers up the chimney. Resting his arm on the mantel, he stared at the fire. No woman had ever affected him so thoroughly and in so many different ways. He wanted to protect her and yet wanted to ravish her at the same time. Nevertheless, he had no right to do either.
    He wondered how she could stand to be in the same room with the man who raped her. Perhaps her hard life had taught her to forget the past—something he could not seem to do.
    As she moved in the room, he heard every intake of her breath, every swish of her petticoats. Damn it! Why her? Why couldn’t he control his damned attraction to her? This was a mistake. If he had any sense, he would return her to London and face Farleigh’s jealousy alone.
    She sat on the small chair close to the fireplace and far too near him. “Perhaps now you will tell me why you did not see fit to introduce me to Lord Ancroft?”
    He pushed away from the fireplace and walked to the window. “We have not developed our story.”
    “Our story?”
    “Who you are, when and how we met.” Anthony stared out at the falling snow, praying it would stop soon so they wouldn’t be stuck here another night.
    “Oh,” she replied softly. “I had not considered that.”
    He turned and faced her. “I know. Perhaps now is a good time for that discussion.”
    “I agree. So who am I?” she said with a smile.
    “I think it’s best if we say you are a widow from the country.”
    “Mrs. Smith, perhaps?”
    Anthony took the seat across from her and said, “Perfect. Now how exactly did I meet a widow in the country?”
    She tapped her finger against her full lips. Her blue eyes sparkled in the waning light. A slow smile lifted her full lips upward. “But you did not meet me in the country. I came to town to visit my aunt.”
    “And while visiting…” He had no idea where they might have met.
    “The British Museum?”
    He shook his head. “Highly unlikely I would be there.”
    “The opera?”
    “No.”
    “A bookstore?” she suggested.
    “Very well, then. We met at a bookstore. You could not reach a volume of poetry, so I pulled it down for you. From there we spoke at length before you decided you wished to take a lover. Your first since your husband died two years ago.”
    “What did he die of?” she asked.
    “What does it matter?”
    “Someone might ask. I need to know that we would say the same thing.”
    “Consumption,” he said, knowing it was a common enough malady.
    “Really?”
    Impatient with the conversation, he raked his hands through his short hair. “Why not?”
    “I was rather hoping for something far more exciting than dull consumption,” she replied with a shrug.
    “Kill him off any way you deem fit.”
    She smiled and her eyes