It had to be her. There was no one else who’d dare disturb him at his private residence in the middle of the night.
She was here. In his home. She had come to him.
He had no idea what it might indicate. He could still recall with total clarity the look of utter disbelief that had crossed her face when he’d offered to marry her. For a moment, she’d clearly thought him mad. Her expression might’ve been humorous if he hadn’t been so earnest in that moment.
He still was.
He wanted her. As his wife. In his bed. For the rest of his life.
Stopping just beyond the open door of the library, he took a steadying breath and tried to shake off the layer of uncertainty that had settled over him.
She’d hated him once. Enough to want him brought low. He understood now how his arrogance and the entitlement he had been raised to accept would have looked to her. How it must surely still look to her—a woman who had such a personal reason to so fiercely abhor the cold injustice of classism.
Could she possibly see more in him than the role to which he’d been so perfectly molded?
Could she come to love him in spite of it? Want him for the man he was beneath it all—the man he wanted to befor her?
He gave a short shake of his head and steeled himself to accept whatever her answer may be. Then he stepped forward and entered the room.
She stood at the far end, staring into the low flicker of dying coals on the fireplace. Her back was to him and though she’d dropped her hood back, she still wore her cloak, suggesting she hadn’t intended to stay for long.
His heart gave desperate lurch against his ribs.
Almost as if she heard it, she turned swiftly, looking over her shoulder with a start.
Concern, compassion, and a healthy dose of fear rushed through him at the sight of her.
It looked like she’d been crying for hours. She was clearly exhausted. And yet a spark lit her gaze when she saw him.
After closing the door softly behind him, Ralston started toward her, his instinct shouting at him to take her in his arms, to offer comfort and strength and vow to take away her troubles. But he feared she would not welcome such a demonstration. He still did not know why she was there.
“Please,” he said gruffly as he approached her, “won’t you have a seat?”
She shook her head and flashed a tight smile. “No. I’d prefer to stand.”
Though he furrowed his brows in consternation, he gave a nod. “Can I offer you a drink? Sherry? Or a brandy?”
She shook her head again.
Not knowing what else to do, he stood patiently, waiting for her to explain her presence. Waiting for her to tell him what she wanted—what sheneededof him—so he could offer it on a silver plate.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Athousand sensationsdanced through Charlotte’s body—sizzling through her blood, buzzing along her nerves, and twirling in her belly.
Even standing so stoic and silent, the man was devastating. Strong and purposeful and confident. Perhaps that was why his supplication managed to pierce her so tenderly. Because it was not how he typically presented to the world. His surrender was hers alone.
He was not her supplicant now, however.
His brow was gently furrowed over dark eyes that watched her with unwavering intention. He possessed her with those eyes—claimed her with that steady, penetrating stare. And she didn’t hate the feeling. Though his head was tilted slightly downward, she could see the tension in his jaw and the way his mouth pressed together, as though holding back something he wished to say.
She wanted to run her tongue along the seam of his lips. Taste him. Breathe him in.
Heat blasted through her and she took a swift breath as she turned to put her back to him again. She would not get through this if she allowed her desire to take control. She was in hishouse and he was with her. And now she must do what she came here to do.
Staring into the hearth, she managed to form a few words. “I’m sorry for intruding upon you so late.”
“It is not an intrusion.”
