And there was the problem, of course. Any other man—a man of more human dimensions—would have taken her last night. Alex had wanted her. She was sure of it. But while his refusal might have resembled, by mere mechanical coincidence, the actions of a gentleman, that coincidence should not and would not make him more attractive to her. She was not so much an idiot that she would now begin, after all her sad history, to romanticize rejection as proof of some admirable quality in a man.
“All right,” he said, and she realized she’d been holding her breath. “We can speak freely.” He looked down at her at the precise moment that she looked up, away from his body to his face.
His eyes narrowed slightly. That was the only sign of his sudden realization that they stood so close. His mind had been elsewhere. Now it was only on her.
A wistful thought slipped free. If only he—
No. She slammed shut the window through which the beginning of this wish had strayed.
She drew a breath that felt, and sounded, unsteady. “So . . .”
His hands lifted very slowly. His thumb touched her upper arm. It traced the bare skin, drawing a circle, light but for the slight scrape of his nail. The other moved to her hair, plucking out one hairpin, and then another. A lock of her hair tumbled past her temple. He caught it up, drawing it through his fingers, from root to tip.
The breath left her on one long, sibilant rush. “There are no spy holes,” she whispered. “Not here.”
“We’ll have to put on a good act outside. And practice makes perfect.” His warm fingers cupped her elbows, forming a light vise that he tested, his grip tightening slightly. “Shall we practice?”
She swallowed and stepped back. Her shoulder blades hit a shelf. “Not like this.”
He followed her. “Not like what?”
“Like . . . like you mean it,” she mumbled. She felt a blush start up her throat.
“But I do mean it,” he said with a faint smile. “That was never in doubt, Gwen.”
She glanced away from his expression, fighting the urge to take hope from that statement. She was done with wrestling flattery from his obscurities. She looked away from his face, to his throat; unlike his eyes, it did not have the ability to look back, to study her so closely that she felt flustered and infuriated and manipulated but also peculiarly exposed. “I suppose animal lust is not extraordinary.”
“Certainly not,” he said. As his head bent, his hair brushed her chin. With his lips pressed to her throat, he breathed deeply, as if the scent of her was enough to lure him, to turn his voice to a low, rough pitch as he said, “But animal lust is also very easily contained. This, on the other hand . . .” The tip of his tongue touched her. Her eyes closed of their own volition.
“I think we might call it resonance,” he murmured.
“Resonance.” She meant to sound scathing, but the word was too breathy, and it tipped up at the end like a question.
“Every object vibrates at a particular and specific frequency.” He dragged his mouth up to her jaw, and she felt, briefly, the edge of his teeth. Into her ear he said, “Place two of a kind side by side, and the first, if vibrating, will force the other to vibrate alongside it. I slept last night, the whole night, for the first time in six months. Did you?”
She fought for composure. It was true that when he was near, she felt attuned to him in every cell. But what was he implying? That their natures were the same? If he’d believed that, why would he have refused her? Why would he have any care for her virtue?
She averted her face. “I could not sleep for hours,” she said to the wall. “I am done being toyed with, Alex. You made yourself quite clear last night. I am Richard’s little sister to you. And while you play the rebel very well, you certainly sounded most conventional when refusing me.” She manufactured a short laugh. “Indeed, I’ve no idea why I’m surprised. You may criticize our rude, fat MPs all you like, but it was their work that opened the trade routes to your ships, wasn’t it? Why, even your rebellion suits our government. I’m sure you pay a fortune in taxes. You’re far more boring than you realize.”
He surprised her by laughing low in his throat, the warmth coasting over the skin of her temple. “A very neat set down,” he said. “Do try not to flash your intelligence at Barrington. He won’t expect it of the Barbary Queen.”
She twisted away from him and made a face. “So we do mean to stay here, then?”
“We can always visit from Cannes.” His light touch at her waist made her startle. “Shh,” he said. “Just getting you comfortably into the role. Can’t have you flinching when I touch you in public.” After a pause, he said, “The blush is beautiful, though. I would regret to see you lose that.”