Yet it wasn’t only physical desire. In his experience,thattypically cooled within days or weeks. Not so with Amelia. It was as if the woman had entered his bloodstream, and the only cure for her was more of her. Which only confirmed the obvious: she’d snuck past his defenses. She’d snuck past his fear of adoring another—of loving. He wasn’t simply smitten like a green youth.
He was in love with that blasted, frustrating woman.
As he stepped onto the front landing of his house, the door swung wide. Thomas, his valet, had been waiting up for him. “Was it a good evening, sir?”
Tristan grunted and handed Thomas his hat and evening coat. Ready to be done with this night, he made straight for the staircase. Thomas cleared his throat, pointedly.
Tristan turned. “Is there something else?”
“Your,” the valet began and appeared to have become stuck.
“Yes?” Tristan felt himself losing patience.
“Your, erm,companionawaits you in your studio.”
Tristan’s brow crinkled. “My companion?”
“She refused to give her name, but said you should be expecting her.”
“You let an unknown woman inside my studio on the basis that she said I should be expecting her?” Had the world gone topsy-turvy?
Thomas splayed his hands wide in a gesture of helplessness. “The lady was quite determined.”
And Tristan knew. This was no random woman, but…Amelia. Few could withstand her will. He shouldn’t go too hard on Thomas. “In my studio?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tristan’s mind made up in a snap. “That will be all for the night, Thomas.”
The valet gave a shallow bow and disappeared to his room.
Tristan only slowed his stride when he noticed the strip of orange light showing beneath the cracked door of his studio. Just beyond that doorshewaited for him. He tried to summon a healthy dose of pique to get him through whatever came next. She’d refused him, then kissed him blind in the Marchioness of Sutton’s garden, giving him every indication she wanted more, tempting him to give her as much… And now she was here.
He wasn’t sure how much more of Lady Amelia Windermere he could take.
He pushed the door open on silent hinges and stepped inside the studio lit by a scattering of candles. Like a magnet, his gaze found her standing before a collection of statuettes he’d sculpted in his teen years. He observed her in profile, the straight nose, the stubborn chin. The way she took something in—fully, with the entirety of her attention. When one was the recipient of her gaze, one felt seen. It was a rare gift. Yes, one could be made uncomfortable when one didn’t particularly want to be seen in a particular way, but on the other hand, it could make one feel special. He liked that about her.
He adored that about her.
He loved that about her.
He cleared his throat, and her head whipped around. She straightened and faced him, her gaze glinting with determination, but with something else, too, something he’d seen before…in Italy…in a fountain.
Recklessness.
He should brace himself.
“Have you been drinking prosecco?” He had to ask.
A smile curled about her mouth, and she shook her head. “No.”
“Any other spirits?”
She laughed. “No.”
He liked her laugh. He might adore it, too. Was there no end to his adoration for this woman? Now that he’d gotten the knack of it, he couldn’t seem to stop.
He moved to his favorite armchair and sat down, his legs sprawled wide, indolent, as if her presence were an everyday occurrence. In truth, he’d done it to prevent himself from crossing the room and kissing her silly. Her lips were still lusciously kiss-crushed from earlier. “Would you like to tell me why you’re here?” he asked, gruff.
