“Alicia.” He tested the name. The consonants spilled over his tongue.Alicia.
Now he understood why she had, at first, refused to call him Ash. The gift of her name was more intimate a gesture than anything they’d yet shared.
Too intimate.
He’d pleasured Lady Stone. He could remain thankful, even devoted to Lady Stone from afar. But Alicia? Alicia was someone he must gather up close and protect.
A discordant note clanged in his soul.
The best way he could protect Alicia was to let her go.
“Good morning, Ash.”
He gathered her into his arms and held tight.
“Ah, Ash,” she sighed.
How could a single sigh transport him from despair to—what was that word? Was there a word for feeling all would be right with the world?
She pulled away. Her lids swept down as her cheeks pinked. “I require a bit of privacy.”
“Of course.”
He set her free. Reluctantly.
She glanced back half way across the room, her shy, sweet smile more dangerous than a primed pistol. Then, she disappeared into the adjoining chamber, but not before nervously adjusting her shift.
Why was she nervous? She was utterly perfect. She’d always be utterly perfect. At least, to him. He settled back into the pillows, propping his head on his arm.
The child of a madman, even a madman with a ducal title, was bound to be lonely. His father had never harmedhim, but he thought it wise to act as everyone else in the household did and keep out of his father’s way.
Alone in his chambers, he’d taken comfort in sounds of human activity—cleaning, brushing, polishing...the clank of dishes, the swish of a gardener’s scythe. But this was the sound he had longed for—the sound of someone for whom he cared, going about a trivial occupation. Life, shared.
His chest pierced—the price he’d have to pay for the return of his feeling. But his three stolen days were not over.
She emerged with another, private smile.
Not in the least.
“Will you ride this morning?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Her face fell.
“Come here, Alicia.” Lud, he liked to say her name. He said it again, “Alicia.” He drew her toward the bed. “Alicia.” He tumbled her onto the mattress and kissed her until she pleaded for breath.
“I needn’t leave the room for the ride I have in mind.” With a crude push of his hips, he showed her what he meant.
“You,” she said, with a deep-throated giggle, “are a wicked man.”
“I want to ride,” he said, “and I want—” He stopped.
Dare he reveal what he wanted?
He wanted to bring her to the edge of reason, to show her the outward limit of his sensual imagination—not to debase, but to deepen.
She touched her lips to a spot beneath his jaw. Then, she whispered, “What do you want, Ashbey?”
