“My God.” Torrington was staring at her, his expression inscrutable, passing a hand over his rigid jaw. “I said that?”
She rolled her lips inward and dropped her gaze to the patterns on the Aubusson. “Yes.”
“Bess, I’m sorry.”
Of all the words he might have spoken, those three were the least she’d expected. His contrition warmed her. Chased some of her embarrassment. Wrapped itself around her heart like a fist.
“You needn’t apologize,” she hastened to say, jerking her eyes up from the carpets to find him watching her intently. “It happened years ago.”
“I do need to,” he countered, taking another step closer, so that there was scarcely any distance at all separating them. “I hurt you, and I’m sorry for it.”
She swallowed hard against a new rush of emotion, needing to look away from his handsome, earnest countenance.
She focused on a place over his left shoulder, a picture hanging on the wall. “As I said, it was long ago. I’d prefer not to speak of it further.”
But the memory of flying to the hard floor at his feet would never leave her. Nor the bursts of laughter from the other revelers which had trailed her to the withdrawing room.
“Bess.” Once again, his big, warm hand cupped her cheek. “Look at me.”
He was being so kind. So tender. And it was difficult indeed to gird her heart against this version of himself, this inexplicably new Viscount Torrington. But there had been shades of the old rogue in him, hadn’t there been? After all, he had been attempting an assignation with his mistress when he had taken her from the library instead. She mustn’t forget that, nor allow her old feelings for him to be resurrected. She couldn’t bear to be so vulnerable.
“Please,” he added softly, and that lone exhortation broke her resolve.
She looked at him, and what she saw in his expression stole her breath and made her heart beat faster. Made molten heat glide through her and longing blossom to life.
“I cannot make excuses for the man I was, but I can promise you that I’m nothing like him. Do you know how I would describe you now?”
She certainly knew how she would describe herself.
Foolish. Weak. Far too generously curved in all the wrong places. Thick-waisted and big-hipped. Her nose too pointy, her mouth too large, her eyes a nondescript shade of brown, the same as her hair. And she was short. Vexingly so. Unfashionably so.
“I’ll tell you,” he continued when she didn’t offer a response. “I would describe you as resilient and strong. Beautiful in a way I’ve never seen in another woman, with the figure of a Venus hiding beneath your gowns. Tempting and lovely and filled with mysteries I dearly long to solve. A woman I very much want to kiss.”
And yet again, she could not seem to find either her wits or her tongue. He’d rendered her speechless. He wanted to kiss her? He thought she was beautiful and tempting and lovely?
Perhaps he felt guilty, knowing that she’d overheard his unkind description of her. Yes, that had to be the answer. She hadn’t had a single suitor in five Seasons, and she knew quite well that a beautiful woman would have had her share of beaus to choose from instead of none, even with her lack of dowry. But oh, how she had wanted to believe his kind words, even if for just a moment.
She took a step in retreat, breaking his hold on her, her cheek feeling oddly bereft when his hand was no longer touching her skin. “You needn’t flatter me, my lord.”
A self-deprecating smile curved his sinful lips. “I’m not flattering you, Bess. I’m telling you the truth.”
“Please don’t feel as if you must somehow atone for what was said so long ago. Years have passed, and I’ve mostly forgotten it.” Elizabeth forced herself to laugh lightly. “Besides, I’m more than aware of my appearance, my lord.”
“Apparently not, because if you were, you’d know I’m right.”
The confidence in his voice gave her pause. He didn’t sound as if he were lying to appease her. He didn’t look like a man trying to assuage his own guilt. Rather, he appeared genuine, his eyes burning with fierce intensity. And the way he had touched her, the way he had kissed her before. She could almost dare to believe him.
“I wish you would forget about what happened,” she told him quietly. “It hardly signifies any longer.”
But that was a lie. It did matter. To her. It always had. Just ashealways had, from the moment she had first seen him waltzing with another beneath the glittering chandeliers. She had done everything in her power to banish the old yearning, to force herself to accept that all the times their gazes had clashed across a crowded room, she had been the only one of the two of them so moved.
“But it does,” he countered. “I wish you would have mentioned it.”
She unclasped her hands, and needing something to do with them, dug her fingers into the voluminous muslin of her morning gown instead. “Some things are best forgotten.”
The moment the words left her, she wished she could recall them.
“Pray forgive me,” she hastened to say. “I didn’t intend to sound so flippant about a matter that must weigh on you each day. I cannot imagine how difficult it is for you, not being able to remember.”
