Slipping inside, she realized only a few lamps were lit, and in the flickering dimness, she noted shelves of books lining the walls and leather furniture clustered around the flickering fireplace at the center of the room.
She found Edward within moments.
His face, even in repose, was striking—made all the more so by the shadow of a night’s beard. Sprawled on the rug, he swirled his wine slowly, the deep red catching the light as it shifted in the glass, his expression unreadable yet captivating.
“I don’t need anything, Charles,” he said lazily.
Notching her head up, she murmured, “…I’m not Mr. Ramsay.”
CHAPTER 28
Edward’s face flashed in the direction of her silhouette in an instant. “What are you doing here?” His tone was less accusatory, rather, exhausted.
“Penelope and Benedict decided to take a turn about your gardens before he returns us home,” she began.
His eyes narrowed. “Did Ramsay send you here?”
“Yes,” she admitted, “and I can see why.”
“And why is that?” He asked wryly.
“He is worried about you,” Alice said as she ambled to his desk, lit a candelabra, and carried it to the small coffee table before him.
The additional light chased shadows over the room and over Edward’s stern features. Her pulse raced. For once, he was unkempt: his hair was disheveled—the shadow on his cheeks accentuated the hollows and hard edges of his face. His shirt was untucked and unbuttoned down to his sternum revealing the hard-carved ridges of his chest.
He was beautiful… and beat.
“So… how have you been these past weeks?” she tried.
“Pah. I was tempted with murder in Parliament today,” he muttered. “The Greeks must be hanging their head in shame with how we’re bastardizing their beloveddemokratia.”
“You went to Parliament?”
“Yes, Alice.” He rose languidly, retrieved two crystal glasses from the sideboard, and filled both with the heady wine. Carrying the second to her, he lowered himself gracefully by her side, then added, “I suppose even rakes as myself have work to do.”
Her eyes dropped to the glass before she tentatively accepted it and sipped. Her nose wrinkled a little. “This is…strong.”
His chuckle was low and husky. “Is Ramsay’s concern the only reason you are here?”
She kept her eyes fixed on the glass. “…No.”
“What do you want then, Alice?” He retook her glass and rested it on the end table. “You cannot tell me you abandoned your sister for poor old me.”
“You are neither poor nor old,” she countered.
“Alice…” his tone dropped to an unspoken order. When she did not reply, he cupped her cheek. “Is it my touch you want?”
“I…” The word came breathless.
His thumb coasted over her cheekbone. “You could have simply asked.”
His hand slid into the curls at the nape of her neck and tilted her head back; he was studying her as if he could memorize every feature of her face for eternity. And then, ever so slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers, and there was that hot soft touch again of his lips upon her own.
Even through the haze of wine and desire, he knew that this was foolish. Reckless in the extreme. He had no right to start this. No right to feel her mouth opening under his, her accepting his questing tongue with such eagerness that the dark needs inside him began to quiver and unfurl. Desire blazed through his veins like wildfire.
Edward’s grip on her wrist was a brand, firm but carefully measured, a possessive restraint that sent a shiver rippling through her body. The fire behind them crackled low, the flickering light casting long shadows across the dark-paneled study. But Alice saw none of it—only him.
I shouldn’t be doing this anymore… I can’t…
