She was not approaching this unusual business with Mr. Carstairs as a foolishly optimistic girl who believed in the fictions of love and happiness. She was approaching it with great caution, and with the hope that she could emerge from this madness with a child.
That she could be a mother.
She must remember that.
“Nothing is like this situation, is it?” he asked softly. “We have no comparison.”
“You did not like the salmon,” she blurted, seeking to change the subject.
The corners of his lips tilted upward. “You are nervous. You need not be with me.”
“Then do call me Tilly,” she invited. “And I shall call you Robin.”
For a moment, he did not speak, and once more she wondered if she had overstepped her bounds in this strange dynamic between them.
Until he broke the silence. “Tilly. It suits you, the name.”
She had always disliked her name. The diminutive was preferable to Ottillia, but scarcely better if you asked her. Still, there was something about the way he said it, the way it rolled off his tongue, that sent a frisson of something wicked through her.
She took another sip of wine. “Thank you, although it has never been a favorite of mine.”
The servants returned with the next course, and it was far more appealing than the salmon had been. She turned her attention to the roast capon, trying to distract herself from the flurry of new emotions assailing her.
“Tell me something more about you,” he said as their wine glasses were once more replenished. “Since we are new friends.”
She thought for a moment. When was the last time someone had asked her about herself? Longleigh spoketoher instead ofwithher. Other gentlemen flirted. Even her conversations with Sinclair, a man she deeply admired, were often relegated to light topics.
“What would you wish to know?” she asked.
“What makes you happy, Tilly?” He sipped his wine, his simmering regard upon her once more.
There was an intelligence in his eyes. But there was a mystery, too.
No man had ever gazed at her in quite the same fashion, as if he were reading her, learning her, delving within her to find the parts of her she kept hidden in the deepest shadows of her heart.
She ran her tongue over her lips, feeling his stare there as surely as a touch. “Reading makes me happy. Walks in the sunshine. Playing music. Gardens filled with flowers. The scent of roses. Children make me quite happy as well. Their unique, innocent joy is wonderful.”
Not having to see my husband, she could have added.
When the duke is away, sailing his yacht.
She refrained from adding those, because the mere thought of her husband was enough to fill her with sadness, and the evening was making her surprisingly happy in a way that was most unexpected.
“What do you like to read?”
“Stories that end happily whenever I can find them.” Sadly, far too often, they did not. “Poetry as well, as you are already aware. Do you like to read?”
“I have neither the time nor the inclination for it,” he said. “I do admire music. Mayhap you will play for me?”
Longleigh had never made such a request. Of course he would not. Anything that gave her joy filled him with the need to squelch it.
“I would like that,” she said, before taking a bite of capon. “Some time during your stay, I shall.”
It was rich and delicious, and there was something about facing Mr. Carstairs—nay Robin, she reminded herself—across the dinner table that heightened her senses and made her feel so very alive. Dinner progressed with its courses and with the continued awareness humming in the thick air between them. By the time the dessert courses arrived—no less than three different cheesecakes—Tilly had been lulled into a sense of comfort and desire, all at once.
They both nibbled at the rich sweets which had been presented as if for a dinner party rather than for a lone man and woman. When she had originally asked the chef to prepare a fine meal, she had assumed Longleigh would be joining them. The duke despised a lack of ceremony in his meals and his life. She preferred simplicity. When Longleigh was not in attendance, she existed on cold salads and a complete relax of formality. The freedom was both alluring and comforting.
She stole a few looks in the direction of her dinner companion. More than once, their gazes clashed and held.
