Wicke had somehow, most unexpectedly, awakened a spark within her. An all-consuming need. The more he kissed her, the more she wanted him to kiss her.
Hard, glittering eyes lifted to meet hers.
“Why did you sketch this?”
“I . . . Rebecca blinked. Confusion swamped her. She had thought the drawing would make him happy. “You wanted me to sketch you.”
“You will draw any man who asks?”
“No!”
“Then why? If you won’t marry me, why bother in the first place?”
Rebecca’s lips parted and shut again. Because . . . She . . .
He reached out to rap on the roof.
Rebecca furrowed her brows as the driver brought the carriage to a slow stop.
“Get out.”
Her eyes widened. “I beg our pardon.”
He glowered at her. “I said, get out.”
“This is my carriage!”
“I don’t give a damn.” He reached to open the door. “Get. Out. Now.”
Rebecca gathered her skirts, exiting the carriage with a small jump. She turned to glare at him. “You are seriously leaving me at the side of the road? Am I to walk home?”
“You’ve walked longer distances.”
“It’s cold!”
His dark eyes bore into her. How had she never noticed their tumultuous intensity? “It’s a good thing you are wearing a cloak.”
“Wicke!”
“Thank you for the picture, Rebecca.”
“Have you gone mad?”
“Yes.”
Her belly knotted with panic. “Do not dare leave me like this.”
His gaze locked with hers. “Goodbye, Rebecca.”
Rebecca inhaled a sharp breath. “Wicke—”
He shut the door in her face, and the carriage shot forward, leaving Rebecca to stare at its departure with growing frustration.
That clodpole!
She could not believe how dangerously close she had come to reveal her secret to Wicke.
Rebecca turned and started home.
