Free Lady of Desire by Gaelen Foley

glass, tension in the angle of her shoulders. “I don’t see why you should care.” She glanced at him from under her long lashes. “You have troubles enough of your own with O’Dell.”
    “True, but it so happens I have some experience with these things.” He paused. “Generally, I’ve found that running away is a very bad idea.”
    She looked at him in surprise. “Did you run away from home, too?”
    He nodded, looking around at his room with a sigh. “Many years ago. Trust me; I don’t recommend it.”
    “What made you run away? That is—if you’re willing to say.”
    He eyed her in wary indecision. So, she wanted to swap war stories, did she? He shrugged. “My old man had a penchant for blacking my eye,” he said in a broad, offhanded sort of way. “After a particularly unpleasant bout of his discipline, I left. I was thirteen.”
    “I’m so sorry,” she said softly, staring at him.
    “I’m not,” he replied, and took a drink.
    “You come from the West Country?”
    “How did you know?”
    She smiled. “You roll your R’s.”
    “I was born in Cornwall. You?”
    “Cumberland.”
    “Ah, now we are getting somewhere. So, why are you running away, Cumberland?”
    She stared at him, looking wary and perplexed, but he could see the little wheels and cogs turning in her mind. She drew her slippered feet up onto the chair and wrapped her arms around her bent knees, regarding him with a lonely, mistrustful gaze.
    “Ah, come, you can tell me. There’s no harm in it,” he cajoled her with a half smile. “Soon you’ll be off to France and you’ll never see me again. Say what you want; it won’t leave this room.” He paused, studying her. “Was someone cruel to you, frighten you?”
    “Nothing like that.”
    “What was that you mentioned about an unwanted betrothal?”
    “Truly, it’s of no consequence—”
    “Oh-ho, what’s this, Cumberland?” he teased her, passing an assessing glance over her face. “Papa wants you to marry some decrepit old wigsby?”
    She gave him a charmingly rueful smile, all tousled golden curls like some angel who had rolled off a cloud in her sleep, he thought, and had fallen to earth with a thud.
    “Something like that,” she said in vague amusement.
    “I see. Well, surely we can find a solution.” He snapped his fingers and gave her a grin. “Shall I ruin you? That should solve your problem. The old wigsby won’t want you it you’re used goods, and I assure you, I’d be happy to oblige.”
    “Hmm, an interesting suggestion.” She tapped her lip and pretended to consider it. “Thank you for your generous offer, but on second thought, I’ll pass.”
    “Is there someone else that you prefer?” he asked a bit more intently.
    “No.”
    “Well, marry the old wigsby, then, and cuckold him. That’ll show ‘em—and you’ll have his money when he’s dead. What you need,” he said, “is to learn how to think like a thief.”
    “You are a devil,” she scolded him, laughing.
    “I hope at least your old wigsby has a title.”
    “Indeed, he does, but I would never cuckold the man I marry.”
    “That’s what they all say.”
    “Not me.”
    “Gracious, Miss Smith, are you a romantic?”
    “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
    “Talk nice and slow, then,” he drawled, “so my poor Cockney brain can absorb it.”
    She smiled wryly at his sarcasm and blew a curl off her forehead with her sudden sigh. “I don’t know why you care. Nobody ever listens to me.”
    “I’ll listen.”
    She shrugged. “Well, if you must know…” Rising to her feet, she took a sip of her wine and paced over to the chest of drawers. “I’m afraid I was rather naughty a fortnight ago at Ascot. Because of that, my eldest brother has arranged my marriage to a man he deems well suited to keep me in line.” She picked up her leather satchel from off the floor where she had left it and dusted it off.
    “Naughty… exactly how?” His glance flicked to her