Which was a bit of a disappointment, really. It seemed that even when she was face-to-face with the prospect of adventure, she couldn’t get it right.

It did not matter how scandalous her future husband was . . . she was not the kind of woman who compelled him to scandal. That much had been made clear.

Even now, alone in an abandoned manor house, she wasn’t enough to capture a gentleman’s attention.

She exhaled audibly, and he turned his head toward her, giving her a view of one perfectly curled ear.

She’d never noticed anyone’s ears before.

“What is it?” he said, his voice a low gravel.

“ ‘It’?” she asked.

He rolled to his back again, jostling the blanket and baring one of her arms to the cold air in the room. When he replied, it was to the ceiling. “I know enough about women to know that sighs are never simply sighs. They indicate one of two things. That particular sigh represents feminine displeasure.”

“I am not surprised that you recognize the sound.” Penelope could not resist. “What does the other indicate?”

He pinned her with his beautiful hazel gaze. “Feminine pleasure.”

Heat flared on her cheeks. She supposed he would easily recognize that, too. “Oh.”

He returned his attention to the ceiling. “Would you care to tell me what it is, precisely, that has made you unhappy?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Are you uncomfortable?”

“No.” The blankets beneath her provided ample padding against the wooden floor.

“Are you frightened?”

She considered the question. “No. Should I be?”

He slid her a look. “I don’t hurt women.”

“You draw the line at abducting and spanking them?”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

He turned his back to her once more, through with the conversation, and she watched the back of him for long moments before, whether from exhaustion or exasperation, she blurted, “It’s just that when a woman is kidnapped and forced into agreeing to marriage, she hopes for a bit more . . . excitement. Than this.”

He rolled slowly—maddeningly—to face her, the air between them thickened, and Penelope was instantly aware of their position, scant inches apart, on a warm pallet in a small room in an empty house, beneath the same blanket—which happened to be his greatcoat. And she realized that perhaps she should not have implied that the evening was unexciting.

Because she was not at all certain that she was prepared for it to become any more exciting. “I didn’t mean—” She rushed to correct herself.

“Oh, I think you did an excellent job of meaning.” The words were low and dark, and suddenly she was not so very sure that she wasn’t afraid after all. “I am not stimulating enough for you?”

“Not you . . .” she was quick to reply. “The whole . . .” She waved one hand, lifting the greatcoat as she thought better of finishing. “Never mind.”

His gaze was on her, intent and unmoving and, while he had not moved, it seemed as though he had grown larger, more looming. As though he had sucked a great deal of air from the room. “How can I make this night more satisfying for you, my lady?”

The soft question sent a thrum of feeling through her . . . the way the word—satisfying—rolled languid from his tongue set her heart racing and her stomach turning.

It seemed the night was becoming very exciting very quickly.

And everything was moving much too quickly for Penelope’s tastes. “No need,” she said, at an alarmingly high pitch. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” The word rolled lazily from his tongue.

“Quite thrilling.” She nodded, bringing one hand to her mouth to feign a yawn. “So thrilling, in fact, that I find myself unbearably exhausted.” She made to turn her back to him. “I think I shall bid you good night.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, the soft words as loud as a gunshot in the tiny space between them.

And then he touched her.

He clasped her wrist, staying her movement, turning her to face him, to meet his unflinching gaze. “I would hate for the evening to leave you so . . . unfulfilled.”

Unfulfilled.

The word unfurled deep in her stomach, and Penelope took a deep breath, trying to settle her roiling emotions.

It did not work.

He moved then, his hand sliding away from her wrist, settling on her hip instead, and in that moment, all of her awareness was focused on that spot, beneath skirts and petticoat and cloak, where she was certain she could feel the searing heat of his massive hand. He did not tighten his grip, did nothing to bring her closer, nothing to move her in one way or another. She knew she could pull away . . . knew she should pull away . . . and yet . . .

She didn’t want to.

Instead, she hovered there, on the brink of something new and different and altogether exciting.

She met his eyes, dark in the firelight, and begged him silently to do something.

But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Play your card, Penelope.”

Her mouth dropped open at the words, at the way he gave her power over the moment, and she realized that it was the first time in her entire life that a man had actually given her the opportunity to make a choice for herself.

Ironic, wasn’t it, that it was this man. This man who had taken all choice from her in the span of mere hours.

But now, there it was, the freedom of which he’d spoken. The adventure he’d promised. The power was heady. Irresistible.