“I don’t hate you, Lydia.” He blinked and turned to stare up at a rather large painting of one of her ancestors. But he wasn’t really looking at the painting.
“Then why?”
“I can’t tell you why.” His voice and his eyes hardened. “You don’t want to know. It wouldn’t be fair for me to tell you, nor would it be fair for… others involved.”
“My brothers?”
The muscles of his jaw twitched. “And others.”
She couldn’t help herself, she moved even closer to him until naught but a few inches separated them.
She stared down and grasped both of his hands in hers.
Jeremy’s hands were not soft. They never had been. Ever since he’d inherited his father’s title, she knew of multiple occasions when he’d taken the time to work in the fields with his tenants.
He may have been their landlord. They may have feared him a little, even. But they all respected him.
She grazed her fingertips over the callouses, which now sported ink stains.
Jeremy was not an idle person, nor was he a man who accumulated wealth for the sake of accumulating wealth. He seemed to be lost in his own frenzy, however. Raging against humanity in his grieving.
He did not resist her hold of his hand, but neither did he do anything to encourage her.
For Lydia, of course, this was encouragement enough.
Because this was Jeremy.
“I’ve missed you.” She’d wanted to tell him this since she first saw him in Lord Baxter’s office and especially while she’d been walking alone with him through the Wicked Earls’ Club.
He didn’t answer but turned his head away.
She raised one of her hands to trail the line of his jaw. “If you don’t hate me, then why…?”
He moved his head side to side, and then he turned to stare at her again. How many times had she gazed into the warmth of his mahogany gaze, feeling safe and protected—and so certain, somehow simply knowing that he was her destiny?
In that moment, she felt all of this… and more.
Kiss me,she begged him with her eyes. Heat that had once felt like flickering embers burst into a raging inferno.
She pressed up, onto her toes, and parted her lips.
Seeing confusion and indecision in his eyes, she closed her own and waited. She was not afraid that he would embarrass her. Perhaps she ought to be. But she’d also seen something else in his gaze.
She’d seen the same longing that must be reflected in her own.
On tiptoes, one hand cradling his cheek, the other now resting on his shoulder, she waited.
“Lydia.” The warmth of his breath fanned her lips. “Lydia.”
The temperature of her blood spiked, and a roaring sound filled her ears as it raced through her veins.
Oh, yes. A thousand times yes.
When his mouth touched hers, it seemed gentle, questioning; he seemed to be seeking permission.
And… forgiveness. He was not demanding, impatient, and passionate as he’d been earlier. This kiss was quiet—searching.
When he traced the seam along her lips with his tongue, he did not press inside until she parted her mouth and welcomed all that he would offer.
