She stroked the coat Rhys had given her—a genuine, double-breasted, black tailcoat. It smelled of him. Of their kiss. If she gave in to her heart’s demands, she would be running back to Montford Hall right now. But her head was still telling her she didn’t belong there, either. How could she? Rhys was a landed, titled man. A baron, at that—she’d overheard one of the footmen talking. And there was no way a baron would stoop to associating with a commoner like her, except perhaps if she acted as his mistress. It was tempting, to tell the truth. The burn of his kiss still lingered upon her lips. But she could never share him with another woman, and he wouldn’t want her for a wife. Besides, she was too plain next to all those high-bred young women clustered in that palatial drawing room. Every single one of them oozed self-confidence and poise. She’d stood back as they surrounded Rhys, enveloping him in perfume and chatter. One had even been so bold as to touch his arm. Marissa had needed to look away before she could admit she was actually jealous.
