“The play.” She ducked her head halfway into the cloudy water. “I wondered what you thought of it.”
“I told you—”
“Not as a critic. As yourself.”
He was quiet for a long moment. And she was staring unabashed all the while. His body was hand-carved, as if by Michelangelo himself. Was every man like this beneath their clothes?
“I thought the Stranger’s redemption came too easily,” he said at last. “Real transformation requires more than a single moment of recognition.”
“Requires what?”
“Work.Time. The willingness to be uncomfortable. Over and over again.” His eyes found hers, then fled. “Happy endings must be earned.”
“Perhaps von Kotzebue believes people deserve happiness regardless.”
“A dangerous philosophy.”
“But a hopeful one.” She danced her fingers through the water, creating small ripples. “I think you are too hard on the play. And yourself.”
“You don’t know—” He stopped himself, shaking his head.
“Then tell me.”
His gaze finally met hers. “You should finish your bath. The water will cool.”
“I don’t want to talk about the water.” She drew in a breath. “I want to talk about the reading room.”
Every line of his body went taut. “There is nothing to discuss.”
“Is there not? You touched me. And then you stopped.”
“You did nothing wrong.” The words came out harsh. “That is the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Amelia.” He dragged a hand down his face. “This marriage is not permanent. We agreed. When it ends—”
“What if I don’t need permanence?”
Something in him broke. She saw it happen—saw the moment his carefully maintained control snapped like an overstressed rope.
He stood abruptly. Paced to the wall, pressing his palms flat against it, head bowed between his shoulders. The muscles of his back bunched and released with each exhale. Then, slowly, he pushed off and crossed to her. He didn’t stop until he was kneeling beside the tub.
This close, she could see everything. The rapid pulse in his throat. The way his pupils had blown wide. The slight tremor in his hands as they hovered near the copper rim.
“Nicholas?” she whispered.
His name on her lips seemed to undo him further. His hand came up slowly, fingers trembling as they found the wet strands of hair clinging to her shoulder. He brushed them back with a touch so light it raised gooseflesh on her skin despite the warm water.
His knuckles grazed her collarbone. Lingered.
Amelia’s breath stuttered. That small touch sent heat spiraling through her, pooling low in her belly in a way that made her squirm in the overly large tub.
He noticed. His hand slid up to cup the base of her throat, feeling the racing beat of her pulse. He traced it with his thumb, a slow drag that made her eyelids flutter.
“Look at me,” he commanded roughly.
She obeyed. His hand slid higher, cupping the side of her neck, thumb finding that sensitive spot behind her ear. He stroked there in small circles, and a sound escaped her throat.
