Desire. Ewandiddesire her.
It seemed there was no seduction required to inspirethatin him. And suddenly this trip, this storm, everything that was happening seemed like…providence.
“Well, you and I have always been good company to each other,” she said, trying to maintain some normalcy so she wouldn’t scare him off when she felt so very close to having what she wanted. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”
“I don’t mind,” he signed, quickly, without hesitation.
She nodded. “Very well. Then I’ll ready myself and see you at supper?”
“Seven o’clock.”
“Seven,” she repeated, proud that she could keep the tremble from her voice.
“I’ll have your maid sent up,” he signed. Then he gave her a little wave and left, closing the door behind himself.
When he was gone, she sagged against the table. Since her shocking talk with Meg last week, she had been going back and forth about what to do when it came to Ewan. Take the chance on seduction, or leave things be and never risk another rejection?
She hadn’t been able to make up her spinning mind on the subject, but now the universe seemed to have intervened on her behalf. Like some greater forcewantedher to pursue this man.
To take the chance that had always seemed so impossible.
And in truth, she wanted that too. More than anything. More than breath. If this were to be her opportunity, she had to take it and hope that the results would be everything she’d ever hoped for or dreamed about.
Ewan paced the parlor, an untouched drink in his hand. Obsessive thoughts of Charlotte clouded his mind with every step, with every heartbeat in his aching chest. When he wasn’t with her, he could push those thoughts aside. It took effort, of course, but there was a modicum of control he could find within the complex feelings and wants that consumed him.
But the moment she was anywhere near him, the moment he saw her face or smelled her perfume or touched her in any way, control disappeared like smoke in the wind. All he thought of or dreamed about was her. All he could see was her.
He had done everything he could to stop it over the years. He’d told himself she didn’t care about him. He’d reminded himself of all his failings. He’d watched, heart breaking, as she married someone else. Hell, he’d even avoided her during the last year of her marriage because everything he thought when he was close to her was so inappropriate.
Despite Ewan’s best efforts, he was certain her husband, the Earl of Portsmith, had guessed. Sometimes he’d seen the man watching him, a deep frown on his face. Oh, he’d been too polite to do anything about it, of course, but Ewan had felt the shame of his desires.
But Charlotte wasn’t married anymore. She wasn’t even in mourning anymore, if the bright color of her gown when she entered his foyer earlier in the day was any indication. And now they were alone and the thoughts were so loud, and he had no idea what to bloody well do about any of it.
As he pivoted to take another turn about the parlor, the door opened and she stepped into the room. His breath caught. He had thought her beautiful when she was soaking wet from the storm, undone and imperfectly perfect.
But now his hands began to shake. She was stunning. Her blonde hair had dried and her maid had twisted and curled it so it piled high on her head, with tendrils to accentuate her high cheekbones and full lips. And her gown. By God, that gown was designed to make a man mad. The color matched her green eyes almost to perfection and was a mix of velvet and silk. The kind of thing a man wanted to touch before he unwrapped her from it like a present.
“Ewan,” she said, her voice very soft as she stepped into the room and gently closed the door behind herself.
He moved toward her and leaned in just a fraction so he could catch the scent of her hair and her skin. Lemons and vanilla, a combination she had carried with her for a decade, perhaps. Something else that drove him mad.
She tilted her face upward and her trembling hand lifted. He caught his breath as she slid her palm across his cheek, her thumb tracing his lips. This was no friendly touch, like a thousand other touches before. This was desire that was culminating in this unexpected moment.
Her pupils dilated and she licked her lips before she whispered, “Ewan,” again. This time softer. Rougher. A question. A plea. A sweet endearment.
He wanted so much to lean into her. To gather her into his arms as he’d dreamed of doing almost all his life. To forget any world that existed outside these walls and simply drown in her. But he couldn’t forget himself. He spent every day knowing that.
“I can’t,” he signed, though he didn’t move away from her.
There was a flicker of pain in her stare. He’d seen it before, years ago, when she’d said…well, he didn’t want to remember what she said. He didn’t have to. It was branded into his soul.
“Why?” she asked, her hand still stroking his cheek.
There was a knock at the door then, and Ewan straightened, turning away from her as he tugged at his jacket to smooth it.
Smith stepped into the room. “Your Grace, Lady Portsmith, supper is served.”
“Thank you, Smith,” Charlotte said, but Ewan could hear the frustration in her voice, just as he saw it on her face.
