You.
She nearly said the word. She almost revealed herself to him, made herself as vulnerable as she could possibly be. Instead, she shook her head, unwilling to give him everything. Uncertain if she could. Her feelings remained too new and strange. The notion of telling him she loved him made her mouth go dry and her heart pound.
“I look forward to reading,” she told him instead. “Thank you. Thank you for listening to me, for choosing books to my liking.”
“Are they to your liking, buttercup?”
His question was unexpected. No one had ever been as concerned with her happiness and satisfaction as Sebastian was. Sometimes, his attentiveness threw her. Other times, it made her sigh.
In this instance, her smile broadened. “The selections were most judicious. You somehow know what I would want to read most.”
He hesitated, and she couldn’t suppress the sensation that he wanted to say more. Instead, he inclined his head and offered his arm. “Dinner, my darling?”
It was a tired phrase, she thought—my darling—as she clenched his muscled forearm. She wasn’t his darling, was she? That phrase, so easily rolled off his facile tongue, didn’t mean what her imprudent heart longed to believe it did.
The truth was that she hadn’t the slightest inclination of what, if anything, he felt for her, aside from desire. The way he looked at her, the way he touched her and held her, told her all she needed to know on that account. But though he’d warmed to her, she mustn’t fool herself.
And right now, he watched her in that way of his that was intimate and assessing all at once. While here she stood, wishing he’d meant to call her his darling in the truest sense. Wishing he’d forego all manners and formality, sweep her in his arms, and take her upstairs.
Oh, foolish, foolish heart.
“Dinner,” she forced herself to say, for it was far wiser than blurting her feelings. “Yes, let’s.”
By the loin of mutton à la Brétonne, Sebastian realized that it was no stroke of chance that all his favorites were being served in the course of one dinner. And he knew instantly that it wasn’t the redoubtable Mrs. Robbins who was solely responsible. Though Mrs. Robbins had been a retainer for his entire life, she had never in all her years of service orchestrated such a dinner on his behalf unless he had specifically requested it.
He met Daisy’s gaze over the lovely table setting—fresh hothouse blooms carefully arranged amidst new table linens, silver, and china, candles flickering with a pleasant glow, all of which he was certain was her doing as well.
“Leave us,” he told the servants dancing attendance upon them without ever taking his eyes from her.
They remained silent until they were blessedly alone.
“Buttercup,” he said then, his throat going embarrassingly thick. He would have said something else, but he didn’t wish to further embarrass himself by wearing his heart on his bloody sleeve.
His heart on his sleeve?
Christ.
From what hell had that rogue thought emerged?
The answering smile she gave him was so blinding that it robbed him of his breath. For a moment, he stared, basking in her beauty, forgetting all about the untenable mire in which he currently found himself. Submarines, dynamite, and the Fenian menace—not to mention the goddamn League itself and his unwanted mission—dissipated like a storm chased away by the sun.
“Is the dinner to your liking?” she asked him, repeating his earlier question to her.
Jesus. He devoured her with his gaze, from her golden hair carefully plaited and styled high atop her head to her high forehead, the dainty slashes of her brows, her elegant nose, and those wide, luscious lips he loved to bite and lick and crush beneath his, then lower for just a beat, over her full, creamy breasts. Suddenly, he was no longer hungry for dinner.
“You arranged this.” If his voice sounded rusty and deep, it couldn’t be helped any more than his reaction to her could. He hadn’t bloody well wanted to marry her. He hadn’t wanted the all-consuming attraction he felt for her. He hadn’t meant to burn whenever he looked upon her. To want—nay, need—her so much that he was willing to do damn near anything to keep her at his side, as his duchess.
But he did.
She tilted her head, considering him and—he feared—seeing far too much. “With the aid of Mrs. Robbins, of course. You’ve been unfailingly kind to me, and I wished to convey my gratitude in some small way.”
The beast in him instantly thought of other ways she might convey her gratitude as well. None of them involved mutton or potatoes à la Lyonnaise. Fighting a groan, he shifted in his chair as discomfort settled in the vicinity of his trousers. A familiar affliction whenever he was in her presence.
And then he thought of how she didn’t owe him her gratitude at all. She didn’t owe him a bloody thing, and if she knew the half of it, she’d never speak to him again. Over the past fortnight, he’d done his best to compartmentalize his duty and the way he’d begun to feel for Daisy. But eventually, the twain would meet, and his meeting with Griffin earlier had made that stark fact all the more real.
He had a duty. Even if he’d fallen in love with the woman he was duty-bound to distrust. Even if he was still trapped in the emerald depths of said woman’s eyes. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
Guilt sliced through him with the precision of a bayonet. “You needn’t feel beholden. I’m not the Galahad you think me.”
