He forced himself to look away, to focus on the small platform where musicians prepared their instruments.
But awareness of her hummed through him like a plucked string. Every shift of her body, every breath, every minute adjustment of her gloves registered in his peripheral vision. The space between their chairs felt simultaneously too far and not nearly far enough.
“Lord Codsworth approaches,” Cecilia murmured. “Looking quite determined.”
Aaron turned to see the young lord making his way through the crowd, his gaze fixed on Louise with obvious admiration. Something violent stirred in Aaron’s chest.
“Lady Louise.” Codsworth bowed deeply. “How wonderful to see you again. Lady Merrow, Your Grace.”
Aaron nodded curtly while Cecilia responded with more warmth. Codsworth’s attention remained fixed on Louise.
“I wondered if you might honor me with your company during the interval? Lady Whitmore has an excellent orangery; I would be delighted to show you, and Lady Merrow, of course.”
Louise glanced at Aaron, something unreadable in her expression. “That’s kind of you, Lord Codsworth, but …”
“Lady Louise will be otherwise engaged during the interval.” Aaron heard his own voice as if from a distance, cold and final.
Codsworth’s eyebrows rose. “I see. Perhaps after the performance?”
“No.” The single word dropped like a stone into still water.
Codsworth flushed, bowed stiffly, and retreated. Louise stared straight ahead, her hands folded so tightly in her lap that her knuckles showed white through her lacy gloves.
“Subtle,” Cecilia observed. “Very subtle.”
The musicians took their positions, saving Aaron from responding. A young soprano emerged, blonde and pretty in the conventional way, her smile bright as she acknowledged the polite applause.
She sang, something Italian and romantic, her voice technically proficient but lacking emotional depth.
Aaron found his attention drifting back to Louise, to the curve of her neck, the way candlelight caught in her hair. She sat perfectly still, but he could see the pulse fluttering at her throat, quick as a hummingbird’s wings.
His hand rested on his thigh, mere inches from hers. It would be so easy to bridge that gap, to brush his fingers against hers, to feel her skin even through the barrier of gloves. The want consumed him, made his chest tight and his control feel gossamer-thin.
Louise shifted slightly, her knee brushing his for just a moment before she corrected her position. The contact, brief as lightning, sent heat racing through him. He gripped his own thigh hard enough to hurt, using the discomfort to maintain his composure.
The soprano finished to polite applause. A pianist took her place, launching into something complicated and showy.
Aaron heard none of it. His entire world had narrowed to the woman beside him, to the careful distance she maintained, to the way her breathing had quickened to match his.
“Stop looking at me like that.” Louise’s whisper barely reached him, her gaze fixed firmly on the performer.
“Why?”
“It looks like you want to devour me.”
The words sent fire through his veins. “Don’t I?”
Her sharp intake of breath was answer enough. Aaron forced himself to look at the pianist, to count measures, to think of anything besides pulling Louise from this room and showing her exactly how much he wanted to devour her.
The performance dragged on interminably. A violinist followed the pianist, then a quartet, then another soprano who at least managed some emotional connection to her material. Through it all, Aaron remained hyperaware of Louise beside him, of every breath, every movement, every carefully controlled response.
During the interval, Aaron endured several minutes of inane conversation with the hostess and his aunt about his childhood piano lessons while Louise stood silent beside him.
When they returned to their seats for the second half, she chose a chair with Cecilia between them.
The message was obvious. He had overplayed his hand.
The second half of the musicale passed in a haze of frustrated longing. Without Louise beside him, Aaron could think more clearly, but clarity only brought self-recrimination.
