But now he could look at her.
She lay sprawled, sated, her skin glowing a delicate pink.
One foot lifted to hook against the table’s edge, baring a sweep of creamy thigh and the delicate curve of her calf. This woman…
She was the very embodiment of allure without even trying.
But then her arm rose, covering her forehead, hiding her eyes, her throat working as she swallowed hard.
Retreat.
He felt it as surely as if she’d taken a step back.
Unwilling to let her vanish into doubts, Dash lifted himself, climbing onto the table beside her.
At the movement, she turned her head.
“Will it hold us both?” Her voice came out husky, a little trembly.
Dash nodded, stretching out and propping himself on one elbow so he could study her face. “I hadn’t foreseen this use,” he admitted with a crooked smile. “But yes, I’ve become quite the craftsman this spring.”
This spring…
For a time, neither of them spoke. The hothouse was filled only with the rhythm of their breathing, the creak of wood beneath their weight, and the distant hum of the carriages traveling on Audley Street.
He wished he could suspend the moment, this cocoon where reality could not intrude.
She turned at last, catching his gaze. Then, with a small, surprising tenderness, she lifted her hand and touched his lips. Her fingertip lingered there.
“I haven’t,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
“Haven’t?” he asked softly.
“With Lord Grimstead.” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “With anyone.”
The words echoed in his skull.
All this time, she had kept herself apart—kept herself for…him? Relief struck first, but it was followed at once by the familiar ache of doubt.
“And you won’t,” he said hoarsely. But then he searched her face. “You have decided then, have you not? You will let me court you? You will come with me?”
She would give them a second chance.
What they had just done should have been answer enough—her body’s surrender, the way she had clung to him, the way she had shattered beneath his touch. Yet still he needed to hear it, needed the words spoken.
But she closed her eyes, lashes trembling, and gave him only silence.
What. The. Hell.
His heart splintered, that she could still hesitate, even now.
“This, you and I, we are once in a lifetime.” He barely recognized his own voice for its urgency. “Une fois dans la vie. Do you not see it? Do you not feel it?”
She nodded, though her lashes lowered, hiding her eyes.
“You are not in love with him,” he insisted. “You cannot be. You would not have given yourself to me if you were.”
Again, she nodded—yet squeezed her eyes shut, as though bracing for pain. “I do not want to hurt him. I know… what that feels like. He is a good man. He was good to me when you were not here…”
