Collector of Hearts Page 8

  He should be hurt by her question. In a way he was, but that was likely her intention and he would not give her the satisfaction of seeing it. He must steel himself against her.

  He cocked his head to the side and locked his gaze with hers. ‘I know you think me heartless. You will have to take my word when I say I care for a great many people.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who?’ He raised a brow in amusement.

  ‘Yes, who?’

  ‘My mother, Quinn … You,’ he answered.

  ‘I thought you were going to be truthful.’ She placed her hands on her hips.

  ‘I am.’ He studied her as she studied him.

  Her eyes flashed in annoyance. ‘You don’t care about me,’ she accused.

  ‘I’ve tried to help you. You think you can play the game and win? You don’t even know the rules. You may not care about me or my good intentions, but I do care about you. Having you in my bed and the pleasure I can give you.’ He gave her a daring half-smile. The truth was he wanted her to care about him too and that was a strange thing to realise at this moment.

  It made his chest hurt.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Isn’t it? You can care about someone without loving them. I care about Quinn.’

  Ah, he’d stunned her with logic. Her perplexed expression was most endearing. Love was a popular topic amongst her sex. They all wanted to know why he didn’t love them. He took out his fob watch and spun it on its chain, waiting for her to dismiss his declaration.

  ‘Can’t the same be said of love? That loving another brings love in return?’

  ‘Love? What is love, Miss Fleming?’ He kept his tone flat. ‘I came to the conclusion long ago that love is a word made up by women simply to satisfy an emotion that they think they need because the words lust and desire would burn their tongues were they to utter them instead.’

  ‘No one has ever told you they love you, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Do not be dense, Miss Fleming. Professions of love flow from women’s mouths as easily as their skirts lift. I have witnessed multiple sins committed in the name of love. Lies, betrayal... adultery, to name but a few.’

  ‘So you think love is nothing but lust and desire in another form? Can you prove your argument, my lord?’

  ‘How does one prove a myth, a figment of the mind? Now, physical love I understand,’ he countered. ‘Essentially, we are all animals, you know, and animals are meant to be … physical.’

  ‘Have you ever been in love?’

  He was startled by her question for a moment but then smiled. ‘As I have just explained, I don’t believe in love, Miss Fleming. It’s nothing but a game.’

  She still didn’t believe him, he judged by the frown between her brows, but the beliefs of a lifetime are hard to break.

  ‘Tell me, what was the best day of your life?’ she asked.

  He was taken off guard for a moment by the swift change. ‘I see the subject of love has quickly soured. Fine. I’ll answer your question, Miss Fleming. The day I met Quinn.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Nearly seven years ago.’

  ‘How did you meet?’ She looked genuinely interested.

  He considered lying but then found himself saying, ‘I asked him to be my second, and, later, he stopped me from jumping into the Thames.’ This little exercise was supposed to be simple, like answering to what his favourite colour? Did he prefer claret or brandy? Did he have a favoured pudding? No, it was straight to the guts for Miss Arabella Fleming. Or was that the heart?

  She studied him closely for a moment. ‘What was your worst day?’

  ‘The day Quinn stopped me from jumping into the Thames.’ He forced a slight smile to his lips to hide how much he hated the memories of that day. He relived them most nights in his dreams.

  ‘But you just said …?’ Her expression was prettily confused.

  ‘My turn.’ He ignored her attempt to get clarification. ‘Have you ever been kissed before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He sat up straighter on the bench. ‘Who was it?’ Why did this bother him?

  ‘Does it matter? What are you going to do, challenge him to a duel?’

  ‘I might.’ He deserved her incredulous look. ‘But if he was the stable lad or something when you were five, I don’t believe I’d bother.’

  ‘Good, because it was a tenant’s son. And I was ten.’

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You would enjoy my kiss. I know this because you seem so disappointed when I don’t kiss you.’

  She turned away from him; her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, and her cheeks lit by a blush. ‘You are a conceited... arse.’

  He laughed. He couldn’t help it. He knew she’d had it in her; she’d been giving hints about her true nature since the day he first met her. Under all that muslin she was a hellion. ‘Miss Fleming, I do believe you just made my evening.’

  She spun back to face him. ‘Robert, this is not getting us anywhere.’

  Sensation heated his body when she spoke his name. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. ‘What did you say?’ He shot off the bench with far more energy than he intended, as if she had just prodded him in his conceited arse with a hot poker.

  ‘I said, this is not—’

  He shook his head. ‘You said my name.’

  ‘Did I?’ She looked delightfully bemused.

  Before he knew it, he had his hands on the potting bench behind her, pinning her in place. He didn’t know why her saying his name had had such an effect on him, other than that it sounded like the first time he’d heard Mozart played at the opera house. Sparks licked up his spine and curled around his heart. He liked the feeling and wanted to experience it one more time. ‘Say it again.’

  ‘No!’ Her scent settled around Robert like a cloak. A cloak that would either warm or smother him.

  ‘Just one more time.’

  He could feel her tremble. Unsure.

  ‘Robert,’ she whispered. There was no need for her to say it any louder, for they were only inches apart.

  He closed his eyes before saying, ‘Again.’

  ‘Robert. Let. Me. Go.’ Her voice was strained.

  He leaned his forehead on hers. He didn’t know why. Her breathing matched his in a melody of inhaling and exhaling. What was he doing? What was he thinking? He was thinking this is madness. He was thinking he wanted to kiss her. Her lips were so very close. Just a little further and he could settle them on hers, taste her as he’d wanted to from the moment she had challenged him that first night.

  He lifted his forehead from hers and opened his eyes slowly. ‘Arabella?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He reached out, tucked a curl behind her ear. ‘Will you be my mistress?’

  For a few seconds she stared at him, and then she gasped, horrified. She pushed his chest and he stumbled back. ‘What? How dare you!’

  He quickly righted himself. ‘I promise to look after you, care for you.’

  She pushed him again, harder this time. ‘I can’t believe you just asked me that!’ She reached behind her and picked up the small pot.

  ‘I’m astounded myself. I’ve never had a mistress in my life.’

  She pitched it at him. He sidestepped it easily. It landed in a potted palm beside him. Under normal circumstances, he’d be most impressed by her throwing skills, but she hadn’t finished objecting to his proposal.

  ‘Is that meant to somehow make it acceptable? A compliment? No! A hundred times, no!’

  He blinked. A hundred times no? ‘That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?’

  She picked up a small trowel. ‘Do you care so little for my feelings? To ask me such a thing is an insult.’ She threw the trowel at him but he caught it easily.

  ‘I will never give you the opportunity again.’ He put the trowel down on the bench.

  ‘You don’t know how comforting that is. Oh, w
hat does it matter? It’s probably far too late. People would have noticed me leaving with you and my reputation is surely at this very minute being dragged through the proverbial mud.’

  He took a step towards her again but she grabbed up a pair of gardening scissors. He held up his hands and stepped back. She stormed from the room, a wave of frothy muslin behind her.

  Robert sat back on the bench and put his head in his hands. What a monumental act of stupidity, of foolishness, that had been! It had accomplished nothing. She had run from him. Their little sharing and caring exercise only convinced him more that to bring emotions into play was the fastest way to end the game. A game he usually controlled with little effort.

  Somehow this one was slipping from his grasp and he had to get it back, no matter the cost... or the tactics.

  He eased off the bench and then through the door that connected the conservatory to the house, but only made it as far as the end of the hall. Arabella sat on the step crying and he felt something inside him squeeze.

  ‘I hope you aren’t crying over me?’ He tried to keep his tone as casual as the squeeze would let him.

  Her head shot up, her hands wiping her tears away frantically. ‘I wasn’t. I haven’t the faintest idea how to get back to the ballroom.’

  Which he suspected was only half right. Why did she have to be so damned beautiful? Why did he have to want her so damn much?

  ‘Come, I’ll escort you.’ He offered her his arm.

  She shook her head, so he shrugged and moved past her and up the stairs. She followed.

  ‘You still owe me my promised dance. A complete dance,’ he threw over his shoulder as he walked on.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘You are insufferable. Why won’t you just leave me alone?’

  He stopped abruptly and turned towards her. After tonight, he was only more determined to take control. ‘I can’t, there is something about you.’

  ‘There must be prettier girls than me to tempt you. I’m sure you’ll soon forget all about me.’

  ‘There most probably are, but I’ve not had you yet,’ he replied. ‘You see, I always finish what I start.’

  ‘Why? Why must you finish what you start?’

  ‘Because I am the Collector of Hearts. It’s what I do.’

  ‘That is ridiculous. You cannot let a... a nickname determine how you live your life.’

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it was my way of life that determined my... nickname.’ Well, that was true enough.

  ‘I’ve no doubt,’ she replied. ‘But surely you see how it has taken over. Do you even know where one ends and the other begins?’

  He was shocked by her perceptiveness but she had no idea of the circumstances and events that had led him here. Most days it felt like his nickname was all he had. All he would ever be.

  ‘I make no excuses. I am what I am.’

  ‘You’re disgraceful, that’s what you are,’ she threw back.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ He stood his ground, blocking her way, his thighs braced apart and his arms crossed over his chest.

  ***

  ‘I wish you had jumped into the Thames!’ Her tone matched the vicious glance she cast him as she shoved past.

  He hid his shock with a long sigh. ‘Again, I couldn’t agree more.’

  ‘Then for heaven’s sake, do it. You will be doing us all a tremendous favour!’ She continued to march down the hall.

  A strange numbness came over him as he watched the graceful sway of her hips. He had led her into saying those words. He had practically told her to say them. He knew he should be feeling something more; anger, or at the very least, regret. Instead, all he had was that insistent squeeze in his chest.

  ‘If that is your wish, I will grant it. For if I forfeit you, then who knows what will happen next? Failure is a crushing thing, you know. My reputation will be in tatters, and life as I know it will simply be not worth living.’ He caught up to her in a few strides and stalked past her again.

  ‘Wait!’ She ran to catch up with him. ‘I didn’t mean it. Please, Robert, don’t …’ She grabbed his arm. ‘It was a stupid thing to say.’

  He looked down at her, at her wide eyes and lovely face. ‘Why not, dearest Bella? You hate me. Quinn probably wants to skewer me. And quite frankly, I have never really liked me. As you so eloquently put it, I would be doing everyone a tremendous favour.’ He turned back towards the ballroom, the faint strains of music now audible.

  ‘I—I don’t hate you,’ she said. ‘Not exactly … and if you jump into the Thames, then … then … you’ll never get your dance.’

  He looked at her for a long time. Lord, but he was repulsively good at this. It even made him sick to his stomach. Quinn was right; he was a manipulative bastard. If by some change of fate he lost his fortune, he would always do well on the stage. His whole life was an act anyway. It was ironic it was only now that he was realising it. Knowing this only made him feel worse.

  Somewhere to his distant left, he heard the voice of his conscience, which sounded far too much like Quinn, telling him he was the worst kind of pond scum. He did not disagree, and if he were honest with himself, all the things he’d just said were completely true and, therefore, he was not really a consummate actor at all. On top of that, Arabella didn’t deserve to be treated in this manner. He knew it, acknowledged it, but the strength of his desire for her, the stupidity of his fear of losing the game to her, outweighed any moral logic.

  Her eyes searched his face. Was she looking for a sign that he believed her? All he could summon was a small smile. ‘Is that ice I hear cracking?’ he whispered low near her ear. She quivered in his arms but he knew it wasn’t from the cold. He was shaking too.

  ‘Maybe.’ He could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

  Her eyes seemed almost to glow, their dark chocolate depths intense and hypnotising. They were filled with confusion and he couldn’t make sense of the puzzle pieces he saw within. The smell of her, the heat of her—he was like a prisoner to it, to her. Helpless to break away from her gaze.

  He put his forehead against hers again. Such a tender touch. ‘Oh, Bella, Bella, Bella,’ he said softly, pinning her to the wall of the hallway. ‘My beautiful, silly, Arabella.’ He leaned down towards her and kissed her cheek, softly, and then her other cheek. It was all he had intended to give her, but once he started he couldn’t stop.

  She trembled again. Her eyes drifted shut.

  His lips pressed against hers and she gasped. He slid his tongue into her mouth. At first, she jerked at his invasion but he guided her arms around his neck and pulled her closer. He liked the feel of her in his arms, against his chest. Bravely, his Arabella touched her tongue to his and he revelled in her response. He groaned and she stiffened but he soon soothed her nerves and coaxed her back into what he recognised as newly awakened desire.

  His lips consumed hers, hot and hard. His tongue explored and duelled with hers, his hands gripped her around her waist as he pressed against her with his body. With every second that passed, he felt his control slip. She drew him nearer, with her hands, her arms, her hips, her soft moans as she kissed him back.

  He knew she would be sweet, responsive, and passionate. After what seemed like forever and an instant at the same time, he lifted his lips from hers. He whispered her name again before moving down her neck. She sighed and it was all the encouragement he needed to continue.

  ‘So sweet,’ he whispered to her, as he kissed the hollow at her collarbone. ‘So soft,’ he murmured in her ear, as his lips moved over to where her breasts strained against the confines of her bodice. He paid homage to the exposed tops of her breasts with his lips, even as his hands moved over her hips to cup her backside with a tender yet firm grasp. He lifted his head from her cleavage and kissed her lips again.

  What was he doing? Another minute and he would have her up against the wall with her legs wrapped around his waist. This would have been fine for any other woman but not this one, not for an inexperienced l
ittle virgin. Not for this perfect little berry who promised to be oh so sweet when plucked. And certainly not in the hallway of Fitzpatrick’s house.

  He stepped away from her. He had to before he couldn’t. His mind buzzed with all sorts of erotic images of what was not to be. Then he made the mistake of looking into her eyes to witness her battling her own desire.

  She was made to be kissed, to be ravished. To be his. How could he ever let her go now?

  He was overwhelmed by the sense of possessiveness that struck him. By the need to be her man. It gave him a giddy sense of happiness that in turn horrified him. He did not deserve her, was not worthy of such a prize.

  Such a lovely sight she made with her cheeks flushed, her lips rosy, and her dress half drooping off her shoulders to reveal her lush, creamy skin. He sighed with regret, longing, and disgust all at once.

  She sighed too, the difference being that he knew what all this could have led to and she had no idea.

  He was a cad, and a bastard and a coward. He knew it as surely as he knew that she would come to hate him. They all did in their own way, in the end. But could he finish the game to its conclusion? Or would he fall on his knees and concede defeat?

  He tipped up her chin. ‘Do you see how good it can be between us, Bella? Champagne and brandy may be the only good things to come out of France in the last decade, but you, you are far more intoxicating than any drink, and you kiss like you were born French.’

  He was glad she didn’t know how much he not only wanted but needed her touch. Had he lost all sense?

  He held up her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her knuckles. ‘Shall we relieve Quinn and your sister from their nervous state, do you think?’

  ‘We can’t go back in there together. What if someone sees us?’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ he said. ‘Ladies first, of course. I’ll be along in a minute.’ He resisted the urge to kiss her again. Instead, he gave her a little push and sent her on her way.

  Now that she was out of sight he groaned, falling back against the wall. He needed to concentrate on getting his body to settle down to less embarrassing proportions. She was definitely bad for his health. It wasn’t like him to get carried away like that. Usually, every move he made was measured, calculated, and done with exact precision, but then his game with Arabella had not been typical from the start. That he had given her ammunition against him, by alluding to his unstable emotions the day he had met Quinn, had been reckless. That he had given her the chance to use it against him was his fault entirely.