She could have walked away. Hurtheven would have let her go. He was not, as he’d pointed out, her employer. Even if he wished to do so, he had no power to alter Alicia’s opinion, nor threaten Hera’s position. But she hadn’t wanted to walk away, because she did feel...oh,somethingfor him.
She’d been enraged and insulted but feverishly tempted as well. And, as he’d prowled about the sofa, all lust and temper and indignation, temptation had given way to yearning, and yearning, in turn, to a thirst so strong her throat had completely dried, leaving her head light and her palms clammy.
There’d be a reckoning, of course, if only an internal one.
But she’d push that reckoning off, out and away from here and now. And she’d indulge. She placed a trembling hand on the latch and unhooked the panel, anticipating the hour to come with the breathless expectancy of a theater spectator watching the curtain lift on a thrilling and fantastical scene.
The clock’s tenth chime reverberated all around. Her single candle formed a poor light as she resecured the doorway and then crept through the passage.
She opened a second door just before the last chime. She stood on the threshold, taking in the large space. The lamps within glinted off spears and broadswords hung neatly on the walls. The floor, on the other hand, was haphazardly strewn with assorted trunks, chairs, tables, and even a large, heavy oak bed—a collection of mismatched furniture that had clearly been banished from other parts of the castle.
She entered the room, pausing beside an oddly shaped, wooden contraption about a foot and a half high with brass decorations, leather straps, and a bright, red cushion.
“A camel’s saddle...”
His voice gave her a start. She hadn’t seen him just to her right, sprawled across a cushioned sofa with one raised side, his features aglow beneath an oil lamp atop a stand.
“...I obtained it in my travels, intending to use it as a footrest in the dark-paneled parlor downstairs. Mrs. Whitby disapproved.”
“Your housekeeper dictates your decor?”
He shrugged. “Sheispresent more often than I am. And she did not expressly disapprove, but whenever she glanced at the thing, she had an ill-concealed look of distaste.”
“I like it,” she decided.
“Really?” He smiled crookedly. “I’m glad.”
She was conscious of his gaze. Conscious of his state of half-dress, much like her own. Conscious of the way his body filled the cushioned sofa.
Would they couple there?
Or in the bed at the far end of the room?
She and Karl had only ever used her bed. Her narrow, uncomfortable bed in her tiny, practically airless room. He’d showed up there one night, his bare legs visible beneath a banyan, and asked her if he might enter.
She’d said yes, but perhaps she hadn’t truly been given a choice. Perhaps she’d only convinced herself she’d had the option of saying no because the alternative was too unsettling to contemplate.
“Hurtheven, why did you ask me to meet you in the library last night, when you could have directed me to meet you here?”
“Suggested, not directed. And isn’t that obvious?”
“No.”
“I wanted to propose to you, to persuade you to be with me...not intimidate you into an agreement. The enclosed nature of this room—the weapons, the bed—I judged them slightly more intimidating a setting than I preferred for the conversation I wished to have.” His brief smile was rueful. “The conversation went awry nonetheless.”
Ah, duke. He’d taken her feelings into consideration in a way she hadn’t understood. “I’m here with you now because I wish to be here.”
“Are you sure?”
Her heart went tender. “Yes.”
She fixed her gaze on a table with a quill, an ink tray, and a blotter set beside a sheet of paper. “Our contract?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “You’ll find I’ve committed a good deal more than a penny.”
She glanced askance. “Mythoughtswere never part of our agreement.”
“I suppose not...though I would, of course, welcome any you might choose to share.” He crossed one leg over the other. “Do you wish to review the document, or would you first like some wine?”
