But as she made her way to the chamber where she would be spending the night, she wondered at the strange undercurrent edging his voice. Something far too close to regret.
Chapter Eleven
Felix had noexcuse to ameliorate the guilt rising within him as he stood in the hall outside Johanna McKenna’s bedchamber. Plenty of time had passed since she had swished out of the salon earlier in a seductive swirl of silk and satin skirts, leaving him behind with a cock that was hard as marble. He could not blame his decision upon the grip of lust.
And he could not blame it upon duty, for somehow, over the course of the time since he had first met her, his sense of obligation had slowly and more surely come to rest upon her rather than upon his work for the Home Office.
He could not say he had fallen prey to her maddening kisses. Or to her knowing touch. Though,bloody hell, when she had undone the fall of his trousers earlier and touched him, it had required all the control he possessed to keep from driving mindlessly into her.
Later, he would not be able to say she had ensnared him or lured him. He would not be able to blame his decision upon the disaster the day before. He could not blame the sudden reminder of how precious and precarious life was.
No, indeed.
Because one fact was as undeniable as it was irrefutable: he wanted Johanna with a ferocity that nearly tore him apart. He wanted her because he was selfish and greedy, because she reminded him he was alive, because she made him remember how good life could be. She made him remember how a woman’s touch could undo him. She reminded him of what happiness felt like.
He wanted her.
Desperately.
It was elemental, and yet it was also more. He could not yet decipher what. All he could say was that despite his every reason to distrust her, despite her Fenian connections, despite all the ruinous ramifications bedding her could potentially cause for him, there was no other place he could spend this night.
No other woman with whom he would spend it.
He rapped softly. Twice.
Before he could attempt a third, the door opened.
Johanna wore a dressing gown belted at the waist, the soft glow of the gaslight illuminating her burnished curls, which she wore unbound and trailing over her shoulders, across the fullness of her breasts. Her gaze met his, and she took a step back.
“Come in,” she invited.
He did not hesitate. In one heartbeat, he was over the threshold and the door was closing behind him. The scent of roses and citrus hit him. Her eyes were wide pools of blue to rival the sky. Laden with mysteries he wanted to unlock.
“You are beautiful,” he said, a vast and despicable understatement.
For in truth, words could not convey the way she looked, like some goddess come to life. He had seen her in a state of dishabille before, of course, on the day he had gone to her at the Crown and Thorn. But tonight, for the emotions roiling through him, she was more beautiful than she had ever been. Because she had revealed the depths of her heart to him—her grief, her pain—and because he had seen the goodness in her heart.
For as long as he lived, he would never forget the sound of her glorious voice singing silly ditties with his daughter.
The memory of it made him want to kiss her again.
But he did not, not yet, for he was keenly aware of the time that had passed between their reckless kisses in the salon and now.
“And you are the most handsome and elegant man I have ever seen,” she told him, fiddling with her curls, almost as if she were nervous.
“I hope I am not presumptuous in coming here.” Unable to resist, and drawn to her as if a magnetic pull existed between them, he moved forward until he could catch the hand twisting her curls in his. “I hope you have not changed your mind.”
“Never,” she whispered, threading her fingers through his so that their palms kissed. “I already told you, I will not change my mind when it comes to you, Felix. I care for you far too much for that.”
She cared for him.
His gut clenched.
But somehow, and much to his surprise, being with her thus did not feel like a betrayal of Hattie’s memory or the love they had shared. And neither did it feel like a deception when Johanna said the words. It felt, instead, incredibly real.
And powerful.
He drew her into his body by their linked hands. He, too, was wearing a dressing gown. The lack of layers separating them meant that all her soft, warm curves spilled against him in the most pleasing fashion.
