So magical that he wanted to grasp it in his hands and never let it go. He wanted her to stay at Dùn Cuilean, wanted to share it with her. Wanted to share more than he cared to explore just yet.
Not the least of those things was her bed. The sensual allure of the woman in the portrait in his chambers had become undeniable lust since seeing Hero in the flesh. Ian shook off the arousal that gripped him at the mere thought of her and seized again on the puzzle that was Hero Conagham.
Though it pleased him that she loved the castle as much as he and considered it home, Ian had to wonder again what prompted her return to this place. The castle, despite its vast beauty, was certainly far removed from society. Indeed, it was almost removed from civilization itself in its remote locale on the coast of the Firth of Clyde, miles from anything or anyone, with just Ian in residence, if one didn’t count the bevy of servants it took to run the castle.
Why return?
The question and most reasonable thought fled his mind the moment Hero appeared on the landing above him. Only one question remained and, for a bachelor of long standing, it was one that boggled the mind.
How could he convince her to stay?
She was so incredibly bonny, he thought again as he awaited Hero at the foot of the steps as she swept down the curved staircase toward him. Her evening gown was a widely striped rose and bronze silk. The broad hooped skirt was nearly half the width of the staircase as she descended. Dwarfed by the volume, her tiny cinched waist was encircled by a band of bronze silk that trailed in lace-edged streamers over the belled skirts. His fingers itched to encircle that tiny waist. The bodice clung tightly to her every curve. The notched collar—for lack of a better word—was edged with lace and hung low across her bosom and arms, leaving her shoulders bare. Begging for his caress. The tops of her breasts nearly spilled over the low neckline with every breath. Her arms were bare as well, as she eschewed gloves. Only the long ribbons trailing from the silken rosettes on lacy trim at the edge of her shoulders made any attempt to cover her bare flesh. Hero wore no jewelry, either, only gold and rose silk flowers in her hair.
Ian had never seen a more breathtaking sight. That is, until she looked down at him with a brilliant smile.
The bare-knuckled prizefighter Tom Sayers may as well have hit him below the belt. The wind was nearly taken from him but Ian stood tall and welcomed his guest with a broad smile and a gentlemanly bow. Surely the marchioness would expect her husband’s heir to treat her with detached respect, not tenuously tethered lust.
Reaching the foot of the stair, Hero returned the marquess’s bow with a reflective curtsey of her own, marveling at how superb he looked in his evening attire. His white shirt and cravat contrasted sharply with his dark complexion, his brilliant blue waistcoat doing the same against the shirtfront. Over it, Ian wore a navy coat so dark it almost appeared black. She loved the peppery darkness of his hair with just enough salt to soften his dark coloring. She held out her hand and allowed him to kiss it formally. Her response was anything but cordial. Tingling tendrils of electricity shot through her the moment his warm lips brushed her bare flesh. Her fingers tightened reflexively around his.
If he objected to her tight grip, Lord Ayr made no mention of it. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and offered polite conversation as he escorted her out of the hall. “I must apologize for the meal beforehand,” he offered as they paced slowly through the Library to the Eating Room beyond. “Being alone here, I have instructed Cook to prepare only the simplest fare these past weeks. I hope you will not be disappointed.”
“I’m sure I won’t be,” Hero answered in her cultured tones. “Cook is a joy and makes everything taste wonderful. Besides, like you, I don’t tend to favor elaborate meals when I am not entertaining, and I am only family here, right?”
Hero cringed as the words escaped her, and Mikah did a mental face-palm as well. Neither of them considered this virile man to be part of her family. The last thing Mikah wanted was any implication or expectation of a platonic relationship. Appearances, Hero reasoned more primly, must be kept lest he misinterpret her intention and begin to feel her presence as an uncomfortable burden. Ian’s eyes narrowed at her words, however, and Hero liked to think that perhaps he didn’t care for the familial connection either.
Still, the marquess said nothing except to ask, “Won’t your father be joining us?”
“No. Papa extends his thanks for the invitation, however the journey tired him and he prefers to take his meal in his rooms.” Hero’s brow creased momentarily. “He doesn’t intend any discourtesy, of course. We are both thankful to be here.”
“None taken,” Ayr assured her, and Hero could hear the uncertainty in his voice as he asked, “I hesitate to mention it lest I offend you in turn, but your father seems an interesting character.”
“That is the kindest interpretation I’ve yet to hear of his condition.” She smiled and squeezed his arm. “It is easy to see that Papa is a gentleman out of sorts with the world as it were. Since Mama’s death a couple of years ago, my father has, in some people’s opinion, gone quite mad. I’m sorry if he disturbs you. I can keep him fr—”
“No, no,” he interrupted. “I meant nothing beyond curiosity. I confess I find him a somewhat amusing fellow.”
“It has been a good day for him, my lord,” she told him. “It will not always be so. Papa wavers between his old self, forgetfulness, and distraction. And as you’ve seen today, moments of boyish enthusiasm.”
“It must make him quite unpredictable.”
Hero nodded. “It does. My brother, Arthur, has taken over the business of running the dukedom.”
“And left you to watching after your father?”
“It is not a difficult burden, my lord.” She shrugged away the implication of his question. “I have a pair of nurses to assist me and, I have to admit, I quite prefer Papa this way. He was as stern a father as he was a duke before. While there are moments these days that are quite heartbreaking, I find him more engaging most of the time.”
“Heartbreaking?” Ayr queried. “In what way?”
“Can you imagine your father looking at you and having no idea who you are?”
The marquess’s steady stride paused for a moment before he drew her into the Eating Room. “I cannot. It must be quite painful to experience. Surely there are other moments to compensate?”
Hero could hear the sincere sympathy in his voice when he spoke and felt it touch her heart. She considered his query, thinking of the childlike eagerness her father displayed for life these days, the interest he paid her and affection he felt toward her that he’d never had time for in years past. In many ways, she was closer to him now than she’d ever been. “There are indeed, my lord.”
“Enough of that, now.”
She looked up to find his brow furrowed. “My lord?”
“Aye, that. I am Ian, my lady, if you would,” he insisted. “I’m afraid I haven’t gotten used to being ‘my lord’-ed as yet.”
