The Marchese's Love-Child. Sara Craven
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desperately in return?
When at last he raised his head, the scar on his face was livid against the fierce burn of colour along his taut cheekbones.
He said, ‘Take off your dress,’ his voice hoarse, shaken. And when he saw her hesitate, ‘Or do you wish me to tear it off you?’
‘No.’ She sounded small and breathless. ‘I—I’ll do it.’ She turned away from him, as her shaking fingers fought with the buttons. When half of them were loose, she pushed the navy linen from her shoulders, freeing her arms from the sleeves as she did so, and letting the dress fall to the floor.
She faced him slowly, her arms crossed defensively across her body, trying to conceal the scraps of white broderie anglaise that were now her only covering.
‘But how delicious,’ he said, softly. ‘Bought for your lover?’
Polly shook her hair back from her face. ‘I dress to please myself.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And now you will undress to please me. Per favore,’ he added silkily.
She could hear nothing but the wild drumming of her own pulses, and the tear of her ragged breathing. See nothing but the heated flare of hunger in his eyes. A hunger without gentleness, demanding to be appeased.
And his hands reaching for her—like some ruthless hawk about to seize his prey.
Not like this, she thought in anguish. Oh, dear God, not like this. Not to lie naked in his arms and be taken—enjoyed for one night alone. To be used, however skilfully, just so that he could get her out of his system, only to find herself discarded all over again when his need for her was finally assuaged. And to be forced to go through all that suffering a second time—unappeased.
It was unthinkable—unbearable.
Her voice shook. ‘Sandro—please—don’t hurt me …’
She paused, knowing she was on the edge of complete self-betrayal here. Realising too that she must not let him see that he still had the power to inflict more misery on her.
The sudden silence was total. He was completely still, apart from a muscle which moved swiftly, convulsively in his throat.
When at last he spoke, his voice was hoarse. ‘Dio mio, you think that I’m going to rape you? That I might be capable of such a thing?’ He shook his head. ‘How could you believe that? It is an insult to everything we have ever been to each other.’
He lifted his hand, and touched the scar. ‘This has only altered my face, Paola. It has not turned me into a monster.’
‘I—I didn’t mean …’ Polly began, then bit her lip. This was a misunderstanding that she could not put right—not without the kind of explanation she was desperate to avoid, she told herself wretchedly.
‘Basta,’ Sandro said sharply. ‘Enough.’ He bent and retrieved his shirt from the floor, dragging it on with swift, jerky movements.
‘Now dress yourself and go,’ he instructed icily. ‘And be quick. Otherwise I might lose all self-respect, and justify your low opinion of me. Punish you in the way you deserve,’ he added grimly.
He went to the door, unlocked it, then turned.
‘Remember this, mia bella.’ His voice grated across her taut nerve-endings, just as his contemptuous gaze flayed her skin. ‘Even if I had taken you there on the floor like the sciattona you are, it would still not have been rape.’ He smiled at her with insolent certainty. ‘You know it as well as I do, so do not fool yourself.
‘Now, get out of my sight,’ he added curtly, and left, slamming the door behind him.
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