An Heiress for All Seasons (The Debutante Files #1.5)(8)

She slid him a look, her hazel eyes bright with suspicion. “Deny and I appear rude. Agree and I’m the coquette. How shall I answer that?”

“Honestly,” he returned.

Stopping, she crossed her arms. “Honestly? Very well. I’m here at the behest of my mother. I have no intention of marrying anyone while I’m in England. I apologize for coming here under false pretenses, but there you have it.”

He dropped his grip on the sled’s handle and settled his hands on his hips. “You came all this way . . . allowed everyone believe you were hunting for a titled husband and it’s all a lie?”

She lifted one shoulder. “If you knew my mother, you would lie, too. It’s easier to go along with her scheming and feign agreement than fight her.”

He scratched his jaw and lifted his face to the cold air. “There’s only one flaw with this . . . plan of yours.”

She blinked, several snowflakes piling in her lashes. “And what would that be?”

“What happens when a man that fits your mother’s criteria proposes marriage?”

She visibly relaxed, the line of her shoulders easing. “Oh, well, that hasn’t happened.”

“Yet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That hasn’t happened yet.”

She paused before replying, clearly processing this. He could see the wheels in that clever mind of hers turning. “I’m sure I can avoid such an occurrence.”

“Are you now?” He stepped closer. “So sure?”

“Indeed, I haven’t encouraged any man’s suit enough for him to make an offer.”

He nodded sagely. “True. You’re not the most inviting of females. Declaring yourself opposed to marriage to prospective suitors isn’t the best method to gaining offers.”

“Quite.”

“And somehow, despite that, I find you . . . palatable.”

Her smile faltered. “Palatable?”

“If I must marry an heiress, it might as well be one I find palatable. Your avowal not to marry a nobleman makes you precisely the sort of heiress I want for a wife.”

She inhaled, the red tip of her nose quivering. “That makes no sense. What are you saying?”

He closed the last bit of distance between them. Her head dropped back to gaze up at him. Her eyebrows winged up over her hazel eyes. Those eyebrows were the same pale brown of her hair, on the thick side but well-shaped. Expressive. Especially paired with those unusual eyes. She could hide nothing. She was an open book, guileless, every emotion there for all to see. He could watch her face and all its sifting expressions for hours. A rather nauseatingly romantic notion, but there it was.

“You understand my meaning well enough. I’m saying that you will do, Miss Howard.”

Her eyes flashed, the gold shards sparking in the green depths. “I will do? Is that your idea of a proper proposal?”

“Shall I go down on bended knee in the snow then? I did not think such a gesture necessary. You hardly strike me as a romantic, but very well. Far be it from me to withhold ritual—”

“No!” She grabbed hold of his arm and tugged, stopping him from lowering to the ground before her. “You’re mad! You cannot mean it.”

“I assure you proposals are not something men issue without complete sincerity.”

She gaped at him, still clinging to his arm. “Then no! My answer is no.” Her grip loosened and she took a hasty step back as if suddenly aware of their proximity. Her throat worked as she swallowed. When she spoke again, her voice was more even, controlled. “Even if I was interested, your proposal would hardly entice me.” Her lip curled in distaste.

“Ah, wounded your vanity, did I? Shall I use other methods to coax you into acceptance?” His gaze skimmed her, wishing they were some place where they had no need of cloaks . . . where he could better reacquaint himself with the curves he had felt last night.

He reached for her and she jerked back, losing her footing and falling in a tumble of skirts into the snow. “Stay away from me.”

He reached down to help her up, but she scrambled back, snow flurrying around her. “Don’t touch me.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he frowned down at her. “Come, now. I’m not so unappealing, am I? There’s something between us. You felt it last night. . . .”

“No.” She shook her head, the hood of her cloak falling back, her expression a little wild, desperate. “No. I . . . there is someone else.”

He froze, staring at her face—into eyes that could hide nothing. Tell no lies. Which meant she was telling the truth. There was someone else. Some other man who held her affections. Intense and sudden hostility toward this stranger surged through him.

“Who?” he demanded, a heaviness sinking in his gut.

“Someone back home.”

“And why did you not marry him?”

She clambered back to her feet. “He’s my father’s man of affairs. Papa would not give his blessing.”

“He’s ineligible then. You should move on—”

“I don’t care if he’s deemed ineligible!” Her words flew like arrows at him, hot indignation coloring her cheeks. “I only care that he wants me. That he loves me.” She points at her chest. “Me.”