Nothing could be the same now, and she knew that, too. But she kept that particular realization to herself as he left the bed and then returned moments later with a wet cloth he used to clean her despite her protestations she could tend to herself just as well. When she would have gone from his bed, he held her against him, his arms wrapping around her.
“Stay with me,” he said into her ear, pressing a kiss to her neck.
How could she deny him? How could she not want to linger with this man?
“For a little while longer,” she conceded, even though she knew it was foolish and futile. Even though she knew the longer she remained in his presence and in his bed, the more she would never want to leave.
But the dawn would come soon enough, and with it a return to responsibility. And for now, she had the steady, reassuring thump of Lucien’s heart pressed against her back and the warmth of his mouth on her skin.
Chapter Twelve
Lucien waited forHazel to join him in his study, doing his damnedest not to look at the small parcel sitting upon his desk, elegantly wrapped and tied with a sleek bow. He had risen in the midst of the night to find himself alone, nothing, other than the faint scent of Hazel and their lovemaking in his sheets, to remind him he had been inside her hours before. His cock had gone instantly rigid at the memories, and denied what he truly wanted, he had taken himself in hand.
By dawn, he had been awake again, trying to put a name upon the sensation of restlessness inside him. The urge to see her had been almost insurmountable, and he wanted nothing more than to let himself into her bedchamber and awaken her with his kisses. And later, with his tongue.
But he had agreed to one night, and she had left him in the darkness, which surely meant she intended to remain stern in her resolve. Instead, he had dressed himself, ringing for his valet, only for a shave. He had breakfasted alone, then had gone for a ride, attempting to clear his mind. His mind, however, would not be cleared of Hazel Montgomery. Nor could his body be freed from the need to have her, not just once, but again and again.
Instead of returning home following his ride, he found himself at a shop, which had just opened. He had not known precisely what he was searching for, until he had seen it, and he had brought it back home for her.
A gift.
She had been nowhere to be found upon his arrival, and he had attempted to busy himself with other matters, but the correspondence awaiting him did not interest him nearly as much as the prospect of watching Hazel open her gift did. Would she like it? Would she accept it? Had he been wrong to buy her something?
It did rather smack of a gesture one would make toward a mistress, and Hazel was most certainly not his mistress. She was…
Well, damn it, he did not know. There was not a word which could define her. The English language did not contain a means of conveying her spirit and her brash ways, the complex combination that made her who she was. Nor could it adequately describe what she was to him, the way she made him feel.
As no other woman before her ever had.
As he was beginning to suspect no woman after her ever would.
He rose, hands clasped behind his back, deciding he could no longer remain seated, staring at the bloody gift he had bought her. He rang for his butler, and almost instantly, Reynolds appeared, his face an expressionless mask.
“Has Miss Montgomery breakfasted yet?” he asked, attempting to allow only a note of cool disinterest to enter his voice.
Whatever happened between himself and Hazel, he would not have her the focus of belowstairs gossip. Her presence here at his home as an unmarried woman, even with Aunt Hortense as chaperone, was scandalous enough. He did not wish to add to the sordid mix.
“I believe she is breakfasting now, Your Grace,” his butler informed him.
It was nearly half past eleven, and Hazel ordinarily took her morning repast nearly as early as he did. He hoped she had been merely tired, and not feeling ill-used. She had repeatedly assured him he had not hurt her, but when he thought of how unprepared he had been for the barrier he had ruthlessly breached, he knew an arrow of shame.
“Very good, Reynolds,” he forced himself to say, as if he could scarcely care what his guest was about. “When she is finished, would you tell her I require her presence in my study?”
“As Your Grace wishes.” Reynolds bowed, then was gone.
Lucien distracted himself with more pacing. He straightened a picture on the wall. He gazed out the window. He picked up the parcel, imagined stuffing it somewhere, perhaps in one of the locked drawers on his desk. Hiding it, and never giving it to Hazel at all.
He worried it was too much, too soon, and too maudlin.
Far too sentimental.
Lucien did not believe in finer emotions between a man and a woman. He believed in physical needs being met. The gift in his hand seemed to suddenly be his albatross. It burned his hand, and he wondered why he had even bought it in the first place. What had he been thinking, buying Hazel Montgomery a gift, as if he were courting her?
He stalked back to his desk, the gift in hand, when a subtle knock sounded upon the door. He stopped, for he knew who it was. He recognized the sound from last night. He cleared his throat.
“Enter,” he bid her.
The door opened, and she hesitated at the threshold. There was color in her cheeks, he noted, and she wore a gown instead of her trousers. Her dark hair was pulled into a Grecian braid, coiled heavily, a few wisps framing her lovely face. The sight of her hit him like a fist to the gut.
