Her hair brushed his cheek. He smelled lavender and starch and the faintest hint of something warm and feminine that he had learned to associate only with her.
His hands had found her waist on instinct. Her breath feathered across his throat.
Every thought fled his mind.
Except that he had missed her so fiercely it burned.
Gwen could not breathe.
Not because of the fall, though the shock of it still reverberated through her bones, but because of the way Victor’s body felt beneath hers—solid, warm, familiar in a way she had tried so desperately to forget.
His hands still rested on her waist. Her palms were splayed over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath fine linen and wool. The letter she had written was trapped between them, crumpled against his waistcoat.
Panic flared in her chest.
He must not see it. Not yet. Not while she was here, not while her cheeks were still hot and her heart was still foolish enough to hope. She had meant to slip the letter into one of his drawers and leave before he ever read it.
By the time he unfolded it, she would be gone. Safely away. Married, perhaps. Untouchable. He would read her confession alone, without her eyes on him, without the humiliation of seeing his reaction.
Now he might read it while she lay on top of him, a ridiculous picture of compromise and desperation.
She tried to rise, but his grip tightened, keeping her in place.
“Do not move,” he said softly.
Her eyes flew to his. “I must.”
“Not yet,” he replied. “Not until we have settled something.”
She could not look away from him. His gaze had gone dark, intent, searching her face as if he meant to memorize it.
“Why did you send me a letter instructing me to meet you on the veranda?” he asked.
She blinked. “I did not write such a thing.”
His eyebrows drew together. “You did not?”
“No,” she said. “I wrote only one letter tonight, and it is the one being crushed between us. I did not summon you anywhere.”
“Then someone else did,” he murmured. “Someone who wanted us both out of sight.”
A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the floor.
She struggled again. “Let me up. Please.”
His grip loosened slightly, but he did not release her. “What is in the letter, Gwen?”
“Nothing you need to read,” she said swiftly. “It is mine.”
“If you did not wish me to read it, then you should not have brought it into my study,” he drawled. “What were you planning to do? Hide it in my desk and flee?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “Precisely that. It was a foolish idea, I know. You may mock me later if you like. For now, let me go.”
His eyes sharpened. “What does it say?”
She swallowed. Her throat felt painfully tight. “It says things I should not have written. Things you do not wish to hear. Things that will embarrass us both if you insist on knowing them while I am still present.”
His gaze flickered down to her mouth, then back to her eyes. Something raw flashed across his expression. “You wrote that you love me?”
