He was beautiful.
And he was hers.
She decided there, in the shade of the trees, that whoever this man was, she was going to marry him.
Chapter Three
He was here.
Sharing the same roof.
Inhabiting the same space.
Ara stared blankly out the window of her drawing room. Outside, London bustled about its day. The sun attempted to pierce the fog. Carriages rumbled, taking the fashionable to and from their homes on St. James’s Square. How mundane, all the world continuing, breath by breath, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day.
But there was an interloper in her home. An unwanted presence. The last man she had ever wanted to see again.
He had not returned to the chamber yesterday following his cold retreat. The Duke of Carlisle had entered alone, informing her Mr. Ludlow would be settling into guest apartments forthwith, and that for the foreseeable future, he would be charged with acting as her attendant. A handful of other sentries would be added as guards as well, but all would answer to Mr. Ludlow.
“You are to trust him in all matters,” Carlisle had said solemnly. “He is here for your protection.”
Trust him in all matters.That was the trouble. She could not trust the man. Not ever again, though she had been foolish enough to do so once. All she had managed to gain was a broken heart and her beautiful son.
A choked sob escaped her lips even now, one day removed from the awful conversation. When he had stormed away, a great, soothing relief had blanketed her in the calming air of his absence. She had been convinced he would not remain, and she would be free of him.
But then the Duke of Carlisle had dashed her hopes and set her on edge. She had requested, as politely as she had been able to manage, a different guard. Anyone else would have sufficed.
“Mr. Ludlow is the only man I would entrust with your protection, Your Grace,” he had told her. “The Home Office has issued its decree, and until the conspirators responsible for the duke’s death are jailed, I am afraid you will have to accustom yourself to this temporary way of life.”
How was she to accustom herself tohispresence in her own home, the one place of refuge she had remaining to her? The last place she felt safe? The knowledge he was here vibrated the very air, as though he were a ghost haunting her rather than a flesh-and-blood man. She had lain awake well into the night, thinking of him, four doors down the hall eight years after the first time she had seen him in the forest.
She should have run that day rather than lingering to watch. If she had only known, she would have fled. She never would have returned. Ara pressed her heated forehead to the cool pane of glass. Perhaps she was growing ill. Her lungs felt tight in her chest and she was so very warm all over.
“Your Grace?”
There was the voice, dark and delicious as chocolate. And like chocolate, she wanted more. She wanted to taste it on her tongue.No, no, no.Gads, where had that errant thought emerged from? She tamped it down, down, down. Buried it good and deep inside herself where it belonged. Pressing a hand over hear frantic heart as if to absorb the beats, she spun to face the source.
He had entered her drawing room without her hearing, and now he stood within arm’s reach, those dark eyes burning into hers. He seemed somehow taller today than he had yesterday, his frame wide and formidable and barely civilized, contained in a dark coat, silver waistcoat, black trousers, and a simple neck cloth.
“I beg your pardon for the intrusion,” he said into the charged silence. “I knocked several times and you did not answer.”
He had knocked? She hadn’t heard, so lost had she been in the turmoil of her thoughts. But she did not wish for him to know that. To sense her inner weakness toward him. To know that just the sight of him made an old and pathetic part of her long to throw herself into his arms.
His arms had once felt like home.
She tipped up her chin. “I answered you. Perhaps you did not hear.”
He stared at her, saying nothing, his fathomless gaze scouring her as if he could mark her with it or swallow her whole. “I heard nothing, madam,” he said at last. “You need to sharpen your senses.”
How dare he take her to task? His curt words stung.
“My senses are already sharp enough.” They were horribly aware ofhim.My God.She could even smell him, and his scent was familiar and yet new. Musk and leather and potently masculine. A shameful surge of warmth pooled in her core.
For some reason, she recalled what he had once done to her there with his mouth. With his tongue. Her cheeks heated but she maintained his gaze with the greatest effort. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? She was feverish. Yes, she must be coming down with something dreadful. Surely that was the answer, the only reason she felt flushed and odd. Her perplexing state had nothing to do withhim.
How was she to endure his presence at Burghly House when she could not even bear to think his name?
“Madam, your senses can never be sharp enough when there are seasoned killers determined to hunt you down and murder you.” His tone, like his statement, was savage. Grim.
