And the way his mother had held Juliana so tightly before she’d left…
Juliana knew it had been misplaced gratitude, thinking she might have played a larger role in recovering her daughter than she had, but having the woman’s arms wrapped about her had felt wonderful. It had been a mother’s hug, and that was something she hadn’t felt for a long time.
His parents didn’t seem to have issues with class distinctions like Brogan did. They’d treated her like a friend, without regard to her title. She wondered where he’d learnt it.
“Of course.” He looked at her strangely as he settled himself. “As your father and brother feel for you.”
She nodded, but inside, she wondered. There was affection between the three of them, she didn’t doubt that. But as enlightened as the Wickhams were when it came to education and philosophy, she feared that when it came to family relations, they hadn’t yet learned the finer art of familial affinity.
Love, but quietly. Feel affection, but in a constrained, elevated sort of way. Anything else was just too mortifying in their set.
“I promised to write your mother.” She poured a glass of wine and took a sip. It was a bottle that would never be allowed in her father’s cellars, but the flavor was bold and tasty if not complex. “Will that bother you?”
He started. “My mother’s correspondents are her own.”
“Yes.” But he didn’t sound happy about it. She pushed a bit of meat around on her plate. “Is my association so distasteful that you want to sever all contact after this case ends?”
“You know it isn’t distasteful,” he said in a low voice.
“Do I?” She tossed back more wine. “I know men can make mistakes, such as the one you feel you made last night, without engaging their emotions. That you could… kiss me… the way you did and still dislike me. That—”
He covered her hand with his own. “Stop.” He brushed his thumb over her skin. “You know that isn’t true.”
She stared at his thumb. At the new scrapes on his knuckles. Anywhere but at his face. “Then why are you stopping what’s between us? What could be between us?” Because his rejection hurt more than anything she could remember in a long time. Hurt her in a way that said that what she wanted from him wasn’t a purely physical affair.
She wanted more.
“What do you think could be between us?” He placed a finger under her chin and lifted her face. “Truly? The son of a woodworker and an earl’s daughter.”
“There could be joy.”
He glanced at the fire, looking torn. His shoulders firmed. He opened his mouth, and she rushed to interrupt him. A resolute Brogan wasn’t in her favor.
“I wished I had seen how you convinced your sister’s beau to let her go.” She traced the mark on one of his knuckles.
He shifted. “I only had a conversation with him.”
“With your fists?”
“People understand fists better than words most times.”
Yes, she could well imagine. Fists were direct, honest. Words could be twisted so as to become meaningless.
Her belly fluttered. Perhaps she had been approaching Brogan in the wrong manner. She lived in the world of words. He, in touch.
And with everything she was feeling, her touch could be very expressive.
She stood and circled the table.
Brogan pushed his chair back, looking wary, like he expected some sort of assault. He didn't look prepared when she dropped down into his lap, however.
Circling her hands around his neck, she leaned against his chest. Never had she felt one so broad, so strong.
“What are you doing?” His voice was a hoarse whisper. His hands flexed into fists by her sides, never touching her.
“Having a conversation with you.” She leaned forward, kissing his jaw, speaking without words.
He groaned. “I'm not as strong a man as I should be.”
