This, too, was kind of him. She was going to suggest it was improper for him to make inquiries on her behalf, particularly when the wound in question possessed such intimate placement.
But when she opened her mouth, two words emerged instead. “Thank you.”
His thumb, which had been tracing circles on her palm all this time, ventured to her inner wrist. A frisson went through her. A new sense of heightened awareness blossomed.
“May I ask you a question?” she asked him, trying to ignore the flurry of sensations.
“We shall make a bargain. You may ask me a question, and I may ask you one in return.”
She studied him through the moonlight, taking note of the wide angle of his jaw, the blade of his nose. His eyes sparkled in the gossamer illumination. Handsome. Even in the shadows, he was so very attractive. She could not deny it any more than she could pretend there was not a fervent hunger glowing within her whenever she was near to this man.
Regardless of how much she did not wish to feel it.
Dorset is a dreadful rake, she reminded herself.The opposite of Walter in every sense. Not to be trusted.
“I am not certain I should agree to such an arrangement,” she told him warily.
* * *
Clementine was wise notto trust the wisdom of such a bargain with him.
Dorset had wandered from the evening’s prescribed entertainments, having no wish to listen to music. But slipping into the gardens had only heightened his restlessness. He’d had no intention to remain at this cursed house party for the duration.
And then that damned bee had flown up her skirts, and he had found himself in the wrong part of the gardens at the wrong time, on his knees before her as a rapt audience watched on. He’d told himself he would remain long enough to quell the gossip with their feigned betrothal.
Until he had kissed her in the library.
Her lips beneath his, lush and soft and inviting and responsive—so deliciously, temptingly responsive—had altered his determination. Mayhap she had addled his wits when she had landed in his arms in the library. Because suddenly, he had been unable to shake thoughts of her and their interlude from his mind.
Escaping to the darkened gardens for a cigar had not dimmed the fires burning within. Nor had her unlikely appearance here. At least, it had not done so until she had uttered another man’s name in her dulcet voice.
Walter.
Her dead betrothed.
Was it wrong to be jealous of a dead man?
Likely yes. But that knowledge did nothing to banish the unwanted feeling lingering within.
“The bargain I suggested is only fair,” he told her, struggling to keep the growing need to seize her mouth with his once more at bay. “If you want my answer, I require yours.”
“Fair enough.” The glow of the moonlight illuminated the bright white of her teeth nibbling on her lower lip.
Damn.
His cock twitched.
“What was your question?” he ground out.
“The Marchioness of Huntly,” she said softly.
Anna’s title and the fact that she was another man’s wife still felt like an unwelcome surprise, even after years had passed. That quickly, his lust died a swift death.
He tensed. “That is not a question but a name.”
“Did you truly love her?”
The breath hissed from his lungs. The question felt as searing as spirits poured on a gaping wound. He realized belatedly that he was still holding her hand, their fingers laced, his thumb upon the velvet skin of her inner wrist. He could not be certain if he wanted to release his hold or keep touching her.
