Desire Becomes Her by Shirlee Busbee

me?” she demanded, her eyes shimmering with anger.
    “I don’t think you understand the situation, and I should warn you—annoy me and you’ll regret it.”
    “I beg your pardon?” Twitching her arm from his grasp and taking a step away from him, she added, “I’m afraid that you have a mistakenly high opinion of yourself—I don’t care one whit whether you are annoyed or not. And if you dare touch me again, my uncle will hear of it—right after I box your ears.” Her chin lifted. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”
    The smirk wiped from his lips, he grabbed her arm again and pulled her next to him. His face inches from hers, he growled, “I wouldn’t act so haughty if I were you, my pet. I know things about you that I don’t think you’d like made public—such as what you were wearing”—an ugly smile curved his mouth—“or not wearing when Winthrop entered your room that night at my father’s hunting lodge.”
    Gillian froze. Her eyes searched his and what she saw there chilled her. She swallowed and tried to brazen it out. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Then I’ll tell you,” he said, aroused by the quickly suppressed fear he glimpsed in her eyes. “I know of the bargain your husband made with Winthrop.”
    Devastated, for a moment she couldn’t think beyond the awful knowledge that someone else was aware of Charles’s shameful agreement with Lord Winthrop. Discovering that Canfield knew what had gone on in that bedroom between her and Winthrop left her shaken and questioning if she’d ever be able to put the events of that night behind her. How many others, she wondered, feeling ill, knew of Charles’s perfidy and her humiliation? How many others thought her a slut, an easy woman willing to be handed over to any man her husband chose like a piece of booty, as well as a murderess?
    She’d always hoped that someday Charles’s murderer would be unmasked and that her reputation could be redeemed. At least, I wouldn’t be called a murderess anymore, she thought numbly. Her presence that night at one of Welbourne’s gatherings might never be explained away, but she had comforted herself with the belief that the trade Charles had made with Winthrop would never come to light. Canfield had just shattered that belief. And how many more gentlemen, she wondered miserably, were familiar with Charles’s infamous bargain?
    “Not so proud now, are you?” Canfield gloated.
    Unwilling to let him know how devastated she was, Gillian met his eyes steadily. “Why, yes, I believe I am,” Gillian said. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of. And now, if you will excuse me ...”
    His mouth thinned. “Don’t be a fool!” He leaned even nearer. “No one needs to know ... if you are nice to me.”
    She drew back as if confronted by a demon. Contempt in her gaze, she said, “You are a guest in my uncle’s home. I will be polite to you—provided you give me no cause to act otherwise.”
    He shook her. “Don’t you understand: I know .”
    Telling herself that she dared not weaken, dared not let him gain any advantage, in a calm voice that would have done Sophia proud, she said, “I don’t know what you think you know, but it does not concern me.”
    “You think so? I have your husband’s vowels.” At the dawning horror in her face, he went on silkily, “I won them from Winthrop a few weeks ago in London before he left for his estates for the winter.”
    “You’re lying,” Gillian managed from a mouth gone dry.
    “Oh, it’s true,” Canfield said smugly. “He may have been drunk when we met, but Winthrop regaled me with the entire tale. It was folly on his part, but the old fool kept Charles’s vowels as souvenirs of a bad bargain and a lost opportunity. His only regret was that he hadn’t forced you to honor your husband’s debt.” His eyes skimmed down to her bosom. “When the moment comes, and it won’t be far off, I’ll