The word startled me into action, and I straightened to pull away.
“Oh, I should not be here. I’m sorry. Please, forget you saw me.”
Before I stepped fully back, he grasped my wrist, tying me to him. With his free hand, he wiped the sleep from his eyes.
“Unlikely. What are you doing here?”
His eyes, hot and real as any physical touch, dragged their way down my body. With alarm, I recalled my present state of undress. I pulled back once more. His hand tightened on my wrist, pinning me in place.
“I couldn’t sleep. I came for something to read.” My voice was barely more than a whisper in the darkness.
He handed me the book that had fallen to his lap when he sat up. “This seems to be an effective sedative.”
I moved to take it, to retreat to my room.
He stopped me with a single word. “Stay?”
I should not. I knew I should not, butoh, how I wanted to. He shifted to one side of the settee, his back remaining against the arm while he curled a leg under the other, leaving half for me. My body made my decision for me. I folded myself into the opposite half, mimicking his position. His arm lined the back of the settee and, in my effort to replicate his unstudied air, our fingers brushed briefly. That single touch was everything. My heart stopped—my stomach dropped. My breath caught in the best possible way. All symptoms of one of my hysteric episodes, but the result was nothing like the same. I never wanted these feelings to stop. Instead of pulling away as I should, I let my fingers follow his retreat, repeating the graze. His eyes met mine and reflected a fever that was entirely disproportional to the innocent touch. I had never experienced such intense scrutiny. His stare warmed me deep inside; a feminine awareness unfurled in my belly.
He broke our eye contact while clearing his throat but made no move to part our fingertips. “You couldn’t sleep?” His words were little more than a murmur. “Any reason?”
“Too many thoughts. I cannot seem to shut them off since we arrived.”
His thumb and forefinger found the callous on the inside of my left ring finger, hardened from the prick of my embroidery needle. It was worsened by my stubborn refusal to wear a guard. He rubbed it gently with his thumb, quirking an eyebrow in question.
“Embroidery needle,” I explained quietly.
His crooked grin made an appearance then, but the stroking of my fingertips continued.
“What kind of thoughts?”
“The kind I should keep to myself.”
“I’m intrigued now,” he said as he leaned forward, catching my gaze again.
In the quiet of the night, blanketed only in the glow of two candles, we were the only two beings in the world. I could trust him with my secrets.
“Dreams I didn’t realize I had until it was far too late. Feelings I didn’t want but now cannot imagine living without. Fear in the face of the future I thought I wanted when I didn’t know better.”
He abandoned the stroking of my fingers in favor of lacing them together, rubbing his thumb against the hummingbird pulse in my wrist.
“Nothing serious then?” His joke fell flat in the stillness between us. “What kind of dreams?”
My sigh breached the quiet as I considered how to explain. “Kate was the romantic. She was the one determined to marry for love. I just dreamed of anywhere else. I thought the best I could hope for was a husband who would treat me a little better than Father did. Perhaps one who was frequently away. Indifference in a spouse would be ideal. Now though, I am faced with the reality of marriage to a husband. His Grace is, by all indications, my former definition of perfection. And I am just…miserable.”
“You don’t wish to be married?”
“No, that’s not it. I still want to be out of my father’s house. I just—We’re not well suited, Rosehill and I. He’s so… glamorous. Somehow, I am the only one who can see that we have nothing in common. It should be perfect. My only qualification in a husband was far from my father, and it seems his only qualification in a wife is breathing. But now that it’s real, I can’t help but want—I don’t know—more?”
I had not understood exactly what was distressing me until I gave it voice. Now that I had, I could only hold my breath, waiting for his response.
His voice was low and thoughtful. “It’s so bad then? At home?”
“He does not hit me if that is what you are asking. He just has these…” My free hand cast about, searching for the word. “Triggers. They change all the time. But if anything goes wrong, it sets off something inside him, and he rages. Some days he’s wonderful, kind, and generous. The next, he stalks around, almost searching for something to erupt over. It can vary minute by minute. So, I spend every second of every day just waiting. It’s only words, but he never fails to find the most hurtful combination. It’s not always in a rage that he says them, either. Often they’re a sort of joke—but not really. He means them, but if they hurt me, I’m too sensitive. And I can never be hurt or angry at him because he’s always more angry at something I’ve done. And by the next morning, it’s as though nothing happened. And I am just so tired from being wary all the time.”
It was, perhaps, more than I had ever said in his presence. His eyes were thoughtful, caring in the flickering light.
“Is it… Did I make it worse? The debts?”
