“Lucy…” His voice emerged as a croak.
She lifted both arms as if warding him off—warding off whatever he meant to say. “Go, Arran. I’ll see all this set to rights.”
The gentlemanly thing would be to insist she leave. Yet they both knew if someone found her here, she could explain her presence far easier than he could explain his.
Arran nodded.
Lucy looked at him, as if she wished he’d say something…or wished she could.
But any words would be dangerous. Any more minutes with this woman would be catastrophic. Now that he’d kissed her, he’d be haunted by the taste of her for the rest of his miserable, wretched life.
And he did the first gentlemanly thing he’d done since meeting her.
Arran bowed—and left.
Chapter 12
The following morning, Lucy couldn’t face him—which, given he was seated diagonally from her at the table, required a concerted effort.
And each time she dared look, she found his hooded gaze already fixed upon her—steady, unreadable, burning with something she did not dare name.
It was not the suspicious scrutiny he’d given her upon her arrival. His suspicion had melted away.
The stares they’d traded last night had been cautious, furtive things.
But this… This was different. This was intent. This was awareness.
This was him seeing her.
But what remained in its place…she could not decipher. And that terrified her more.
What must his opinion be of her now?
She’d not turned away from his kiss—she’d given herself wholly into it. And had Arran not stopped, she would have surrendered herself entirely to him on the oak planks of that kitchen table.
And what would he think when he discovered the truth—her greatest betrayal of this family was against him.
He had revealed tragic moments that had shaped him into the man he had become. He had done so for her benefit, as if she were somehow good and honorable.
When in truth, Arran McQuoid was a man of conviction, loyalty, and fierce devotion to his family. And the very love he held for them accounted for all the mistakes he believed were sins.
That love, that tenderness wrapped in steel, had made her fall more than a little in love with him.
From the beginning, she’d been drawn to him.
Now, she yearned for him.
The parts of himself he revealed—the depth, the vulnerability—undid her. And then there had been his touch. His masterful, glorious embrace. The kind sung of in sonnets and whispered through the halls of kings.
Fisting her hands in her lap, she flexed and unflexed her fingers.
“Lucy, you haven’t eaten a thing,” Lady Alexandra, the Viscountess Crichton, quietly inquired.
Pausing mid-chew of the gingerbread biscuit she ate, Lady Fleur looked askance. “Yes,” she said, with none of the mature viscountess’s discretion. “Are you feeling all right?”
The goodness and kindness of this family would undo her.
Lucy managed a smile. She opened her mouth to reply—
