I swallowed hard, trying to ignore what his touch did to me and bury the desire I could feel building between my thighs.
“I’m fine,” I insisted, though my hand had instinctively gripped the front of his arm, making me question why I wasn’t pushing him away when I said this.
“I see that,” he replied in a slightly smug tone, as if he knew precisely why he made me breathless. Which had me questioning if this was the reason he hadn’t yet released me. Instead, his thumb shifted almost absently at my waist before he stepped back just enough to restore a semblance of space.
“Perhaps I should carry you again?” he asked, the faintest thread of teasing woven through the words.
“You seem prone to instability.”
I grumbled at this before turning around to face him.
“That won’t be necessary,” I replied quickly, smoothing my skirt as though dignity could be restored through fabric alone.
“As you wish,” he said, though something in his tone suggested he would not have minded.
As for the upper landing, this had opened up not into another cluster of rooms, but into a long gallery that stretched what could have been the length of the house. The upper landing opened into a long gallery that stretched ahead of us, darker than I expected, given the hour.
At the far end, a single arched window let in just enough daylight to remind me it was still morning, though not enough to brighten the gallery fully. It was the first true glimpse of the outside world I had seen since we had stepped inside, and for a fleeting second, the brightness beyond it felt almost unreal. A reminder that the day was still moving forward without me and was far from over yet.
The light did not reach far. It thinned quickly across the length of the gallery, leaving the majority of the space dependent on the fancy glass wall lights set between heavy gilt frames. The glow settled unevenly across the oil paintings, warming some and leaving others half in shadow. The air was also cooler here, touched by a subtle draft that slipped through the old glass, skimmed along the floor, then climbed slowly upward.
But then something caught my eye, and I paused my steps without meaning to. The nearest portrait drew me in almost immediately. A man stood poised in dark eighteenth-century attire, coat fitted close to broad shoulders, one hand resting against the pommel of a sword. His expression was composed, measured, and almost severe.
Familiar.
Way too familiar.
He cleared his throat, and we continued walking, but my unease deepened. Another portrait followed, this one older, theclothing different, the setting altered. Yet the eyes were the same piercing blue, and the jaw was cut with the same restrained authority. The posture. The stillness. Even the way the painter had captured the set of his mouth felt recognizable.
My fingers tightened unconsciously around his arm.
“These aren’t ancestors of yours, are they?” I asked, attempting lightness, though I could hear the thread of uncertainty beneath it.
“Because if they are, your family has a very specific face.”
He didn’t immediately answer, but his gaze shifted to the painting nearest us, then to me. His expression was unreadable save for the faintest flicker of amusement that ghosted across his handsome features.
“Do they?” he replied at last, his voice smooth, almost idle, though I felt the subtle tension in the muscle beneath my hand as if he were aware of the direction my thoughts were taking me.
“They look remarkably alike,” I pressed, studying the painted figure once more before glancing up at him.
“Genetics can be persistent, I guess,” he said calmly, though the corner of his mouth curved just slightly, and I narrowed my eyes at him.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Enjoying what?” he asked, though the faint lift of his brow betrayed him, the subtle curve at the corner of his mouth confirming he knew exactly what I meant.
“Not answering me,” I said firmly, and I would have crossed my arms to add to the effect. However, this was difficult to do due to the fact that my hand had already returned to gripping his sleeve for balance.
His gaze stayed on me longer than it should have, not brushing me off, not hurrying past the moment, just watching me like he actually enjoyed that I hadn’t let it go. There was no irritation there. If anything, he seemed faintly impressed.
“I find curiosity appealing…” he said finally before he stepped closer. Not enough to crowd me, but enough that the air shifted between us. Enough that I became aware of the subtle heat radiating from him. His eyes lowered briefly, not to my hands,but to my mouth.
“Especially when it comes from even more appealing lips,”he finished, his voice dipping lower after he leaned in.
The whisper skimmed along my skin like something tangible, heat rushing to my face before I could control it. And worst of all…I hated that he noticed.Of course he noticed. Was there anything the guy missed?
His gaze returned to my eyes, slowly tracking the blush as it spread. For a moment, neither of us moved.
