What the Marquess Sees by Amy Quinton

his…
    Button five taunted him, laughed outright in his face.
    It all but winked at him in the dancing glow of the swinging carriage lamp. He was no coward though, and if he kept reminding himself of his bravery, it would be true. This time, his fingertips grazed her exposed skin as he worked to set the button free.
    A jolt of full on lust shot straight to his groin.
    Ah, hell.
    Button six stared back at him. Mocking him. Daring him to continue.
    Self-preservation kicked in, and he paused to rein in his unwelcome desire. He managed to refrain from running his fingers through his own hair and down his face in distress. Barely. He clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking. When that didn’t help, he set to work removing his cravat. He was in trouble if he couldn’t get a hold of himself.
    “Is there a problem?” Lady Beatryce looked over her shoulder while holding the front of her dress in place. She looked confident. Telling.
    He glared in return while removing his suddenly too-tight cravat. She seemed completely unaffected by the fact that he was undressing before her eyes while he was nearly choking on his uncontrollable and unwanted desire…at the sight of her back of all things. She’d probably seen many a man without their cravat. His actions probably didn’t even faze her.
    “Of course not. I’m hot. Turn back around.”
    For a moment, he thought he saw a smile grace her face before she turned completely away. He ignored the thought and asked a question guaranteed to stir up trouble. “Tell me something you regret.”
    Button six was released with little fanfare. Yes, this would work. Keeping them both angry would douse the fires of his attraction. Surely.
    “That is none of your business.”
    “It’s called conversation. Ever heard of it? We are going to be spending a lot of time together—by your own request, might I remind you. So tell me anyway.”
    Lady Beatryce squared her shoulders, but didn’t look back. Finally, after a long, drawn-out exhale, she said, “I regret nothing.”
    “Liar. Nothing? That can’t be true. We all have regrets.” Even heartless sirens.
    Button seven was released.
    Christ, were the buttons multiplying?
    Lady Beatryce lifted her chin a notch. “I once threw something into the fire…something belonging to my cousin, Grace. I suppose most people would regret something like that.”
    “But not you.” It was a statement more than a question.
    “No.”
    Hadn’t he called her heartless? “What was it?”
    “Her sketch diary. Didn’t she mention it at the time?”
    “No.”
    “I cannot believe she didn’t tell you…”
    “Lady Grace is a much better person than you…give her credit for.” He’d paused after saying you. On purpose, of course.
    Beatryce lifted her chin higher, if possible. She would drown if she were standing in the rain.
    She still didn’t face him. The little hairs on her back stood on end. He ignored those wicked fiends.
    Button eight was freed.
    “Well, this particular diary was filled with her clothing designs, and more importantly, personal notes from her parents—words of encouragement and all that.”
    He paused, stunned. “Did she know it was you?”
    “Yes. She was there. She saw it all.”
    “And you don’t regret your actions even a tiny bit?” He was incredulous. How could anyone be so cruel and show such little remorse?
    “No.”
    “What possible reason could justify…”
    She turned at that and with one hand, gripped his jacket. Four knuckles pressed into his chest; four points of heat, sharp like a knife. “Do you even recall who my father was?” she interrupted. “I would have done anything…A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G…to get away from him.”
    She let go and turned back around. “For someone so sure of himself, you seem to be a poor judge of character.”
    “Ha! I dislike you—it would seem I am an excellent judge of character,” he retorted.
    And that did it. He was through with her. Through with her dress.