Aaron remained where he stood, counting breaths, listing all the ways he was different from his father.
He didn’t collect women like art. He didn’t destroy them for sport. He didn’t take what he wanted without thought for the damage left behind.
But God help him, watching Galway monopolize Louise’s attention for the past hour had awakened something primitive in him that cared nothing for noble intentions.
“Lady Louise handles herself well,” Ernest observed. “She’s given him nothing to build on.”
Aaron knew that. Could see it in every carefully controlled response, every politely maintained distance. Louise was performing the perfect companion, above reproach in every way.
Which meant the fury building in his chest had no legitimate target except himself.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Aaron said abruptly.
He left Ernest without explanation, needing distance from the scene playing out across the room. But everywhere he moved, he remained aware of Louise, of Galway’s persistent attention, of the way other men watched her when they thought no one would notice.
The evening dragged on interminably. Aaron made appropriate conversation, played a hand of cards, and discussed politics with men whose names he forgot immediately. Through it all, his attention remained fixed on Louise, on the careful way she navigated Galway’s interest without giving offense or encouragement.
She was perfect. Controlled. Proper.
And he wanted to destroy that control entirely.
The thought should have appalled him. Instead, it took root in his mind, growing with each passing minute. He thought of her in his chambers, coming apart beneath his touch. The sounds she made when pleasure overwhelmed propriety. The way she trusted him completely in those stolen moments.
But that was all those moments were: stolen.
And that was all they would remain.
“Lord Galway seemed pleasant,” Cecilia said drowsily.
“He was very polite,” Louise agreed, her tone revealing nothing.
Aaron’s hands clenched against his thighs.Polite. As if Galway’s obvious desire to bed her could be reduced to mere politeness.
They arrived at Calborough House, and Aaron watched Louise disappear upstairs without acknowledging him. Cecilia patted his cheek with motherly affection that felt like mockery, given the thoughts consuming him.
He retreated to his study, poured himself a brandy, and tried to think of anything except Louise in that amber silk gown, the way candlelight had caught in her hair, the perfect column of her throat when she tilted her head to listen to the man’s undoubtedly insipid conversation.
Aaron pulled out a sheet of paper before reason could reassert itself. His hand moved without conscious direction, writing words that came from the primitive part of him that cared nothing for propriety.
Come to my chambers.
He sealed the note and made his way through the dark house, his footsteps silent on thick carpets. At Louise’s door, he paused,knowing he stood at a precipice. Sliding this note beneath her door would cross a line, would take what he had sworn to deny himself.
The note slipped beneath her door with barely a whisper.
Aaron returned to his chambers to wait, pacing before the fire like a caged predator. She might not come. She might recognize the danger in his summons and wisely keep her distance.
The door opened without a knock.
Louise stood in the doorway in her nightgown and wrapper, hair loose around her shoulders, cheeks still faintly flushed from the cold. She must have come the moment she’d read his note; she hadn’t even tried to compose herself.
A warmth tightened in Aaron’s chest.
“Close the door,” he said quietly.
She did, and when she turned back to him, her eyes searched his face—curious, a touch breathless, as though she already knew why he’d asked her here.
“I came as soon as I could,” she murmured. “Your note sounded … important.”
