The Incomparable Miss Compton by Regina Scott Page B

and entertain in them as you liked. My income is sufficient that you would never need be concerned about spending money, and I would offer you a considerable dower settlement.”
    “You resort to logic again, my lord,” she replied. “I’m afraid that isn’t going to work.”
    At last he frowned. “I don’t understand.”
    She shook her head. “No, I truly believe you don’t. I’m sure you see this as a great honor. You may even see this as a rescue of sorts, the poor, helpless spinster offered a wondrous new life by the wealthy titled gentleman. It is something out of a fairy tale. But I must refuse, my lord.”
    His frown deepened. “Is it that you fear the intimacy, that I will be as logical in my private life as I am here today?”
    “I would not presume to wonder,” she said, feeling her cheeks reddening.
    His frown evaporated, to be replaced by a lazy smile. He reached out a hand to stroke her cheek. Heat spread from his touch, astonishing her in its intensity. Yet, knowing he was watching her reaction, she forced herself to sit ramrod straight and not lean into the touch as her body demanded. He ran a finger along her lips, and she raised her head, putting them out of reach, even as they tingled with his touch. He shook his head.
    “It isn’t that easy to evade me, Miss Compton,” he murmured. “I believe you know that we would make a marvelous team. Let go of your pride and say you’ll marry me.”
    The desire to agree was as strong as the demand of her body. She clamped her teeth together to keep the words from coming out. Was she such a spineless creature after all to be swayed by a simple touch? The very thought filled her with fury. She rose to her feet, forcing him to do likewise.
    “I must refuse, my lord,” she told him. “I believe it is customary to thank you for your offer. Therefore, I thank you. Now, excuse me. I should see to Persephone.” She attempted to sweep past him, wanting only to escape. Her head was high, her pride higher. She refused to bear another burden of gratitude for something less than love.
    She found his arm blocking her way.
    “You owe me no more explanation than that?” he demanded. “I lay my heart at your feet and you spurn me so easily?”
    She spared him a glance, finding his frown more astonished than angry. She felt a momentary pity for him; it was probably one of the only times anyone had refused him anything.
    He would have to get used to it.
    “You did not lay your heart at my feet,” she replied. The firmness of her statement had some effect, for he withdrew his hand. “You did not even lay your prestige at my feet. What you laid at my feet was the position of a brood mare who will also pull your carriage. I’ve been pulling someone else’s carriage most of my life, my lord. I intend to pull my own carriage in the future. I jolly well don’t need to do it for a near stranger, no matter how rich or powerful or handsome or arrogant. The answer to your question is no, my lord. No, no, and again no. I do not need to marry for wealth or work. Most likely, I will never marry. But if I do, it will have to be like something out of a fairy story. The gentleman will need to be so madly in love with me that he can see no other course of action. And I assure you, I will feel the same way about him. Now, this interview is at an end. Goodbye, Lord Breckonridge.”
     

Chapter Nine
     
    As Malcolm stormed into Lady Prestwick’s sitting room that afternoon, she deigned to look up. She was her usual composed self, perched on her camel-backed sofa with a partially finished piece of embroidery in her lap, needle poised in mid-air. She didn’t even blink as he stalked up to her.
    “She turned me down,” he declared without roundaboutation.
    She simply eyed him. “Miss Compton? Why would she do that?”
    “Why indeed?” Malcolm snarled. He wanted nothing so much as to rail at the injustice, but he spotted Rames, the Prestwick butler, hovering in the