He’d left his waistcoat on the bedchamber floor and wouldn’t risk going back for it. Risk his temper exploding and him taking his anger out on her—in her. Christ, he tugged a hand through his hair. The woman was going to drive him insane. How could he feel anything but loathing for such a woman? His stomach clenched and his blood froze—but he did. The hunt for his father’s salvation was obviously clouding his judgment. There was just too much going on in his mind, too many questions requiring answers, too many restless doubts. And there was also something else that wouldn’t let him alone—something kicking and screaming in his chest with every breath he took. Perhaps that’s why he’d allowed himself the temporary luxury of just enjoying her seduction. Now that Rheda had opened the door to carnal delights, what reason was there to stop him from taking her—willing or not? His honor—that’s what. He still had a smidgeon of honor left. Marguerite hadn’t destroyed it completely.
