Free To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) by Kristina Cook Page A

her-he threw back his head
and laughed, a deep, reverberating, purely male laugh.
Finally, he returned his gaze to her, studying her face for
what seemed like forever. "What game are you playing
at, Eleanor Ashton? I'm beginning to think you a tease"
    She shook her head. "I'm no tease. I'm simply stating facts, nothing more. I've no reason to be coy with
you, of all people."
    "And what does that mean, me of all people?"
    "Just that it's not worth my while to trifle with you."
    "No, I suppose it is not," Frederick said, carefully
studying her. Not that he was such an expert on women,
but she completely baffled him. One moment she was
haughty and condescending, near-flirtatious the next.
And now her hands were trembling, even as she tried to
hide them in the folds of her skirts. Her cheeks were
flushed and her eyes flashed, her chin tipped in the air
contemptuously.
    Damnation, but she was near to shaking with anger.
What in God's name had he done to inspire such potent
feelings of dislike? "We used to be friends, you and I,"
he said softly.
    Eleanor bit her lower lip, then turned to look back
toward the road. He could see the rapid rise and fall of
her shoulders as she considered his words. At last she
turned back to face him, her gaze fluttering up to meet
his. "I suppose we were friends. But that was eons ago; we were but children. We're adults now, and I do not
think it wise that we ... well, that we have overmuch
to do with one another."

    He took two steps toward her, wanting to reach for
her hand, but deciding it was best if he didn't. "And
what, exactly, have I done to sink so low in your estimation? After all, you informed me that you did not wish
to marry me, and I agreed that it was not prudent for us
to do so. Call me what you will, a rake or a rogue, but
what difference does it make to you if I am the worst
sort of libertine? I've done you no wrong, besides rejecting a match that you yourself rejected first"
    "Why did you ever agree to it in the first place?" she
asked, her voice wavering slightly, her bravado fading
at last.
    How could he explain it? How could he tell her that
he'd remembered her as nothing more than a companionable yet utterly unexceptional woman? A woman he
could tuck safely away in the countryside whilst he continued to enjoy himself in Town, his pockets made heavier by her dowry.
    I can't, his mind countered. He couldn't say such
hurtful things to her, no matter how snappish she was,
no matter how much she deserved the comeuppance. He
was tired of arguing with her, tired of the tension that
crackled between them whenever they were in each
other's company. Damnation, but he needed some peace
in his life, some tranquility. The time spent in his
father's company of late had drained him, leaving him
feeling empty, barren.
    Despising his own weakness, he realized that a
part of him-a small part-had hoped that once, just
once, he'd walk through his father's door and hear
warm words of welcome instead of scorn and dis dain. Disappointment. Rejection. Those things were
his constant companions.

    And then it dawned on him. Rejection. Eleanor felt
he had rejected her. A woman's pride was fragile, and
he'd hurt hers when he'd said he wouldn't marry her.
He'd meant to hurt her pride, of course. Initially. A natural reaction to her snobbery, nothing more. But considering she'd been right to reject him, it suddenly seemed
unjustified, even cruel. He resolved at once to make it
right, to make her understand why he had rejected her.
    "I cannot explain why I agreed to the match, Eleanor.
But surely you don't think I decided to beg off because
I found you lacking in any respect?"
    Eleanor simply raised one delicately arched brow in
response, and Frederick realized he'd been correct, that
that was exactly what she had thought. Of course she
would have. A wave of remorse washed over him, and he
reached out to tuck an errant ebony lock behind her ear.
"My God,