Merry was here. That was the only cogent thought Peter Reid’s addled brain could manage to conjure over and over again as he stared at her. Drank her in with all her stunning and sensual beauty that had been haunting his dreams since the moment they’d been parted, a lifetime ago.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t known the wife of his patron, the Marquess of Egerton, was Merritt. He just tried not to think about it. About her and her relationship with the other man.
Ever.
“What amIdoing here?” she repeated, shaking her head. “That is not the question, Peter. What areyoudoing here? And apparently you told my maid that you were called here by Elliot…by my husband. What in the world is going on?”
Peter fought to arrange his spinning mind, to put the pieces together that neither of them could see. “The marquess did call me to meet him here, as he apparently knew I would be in the area on holiday this month. I came because he has been…he’s my patron, Merritt.”
She blinked, and what he’d always feared was true became clear. She hadn’t known that the marquess provided the funding behind Peter’s rise as a playwright, his dream come true after years of struggle and strife. Egerton had some other motive behind it rather than her urging.
“Your patron,” she repeated, and staggered away to the window, where she stared out at the waves crashing onto the beach below. “He never told me. Even when we spoke of your work.”
“You spoke of my work?” Peter asked softly.
She faced him then, her gaze pointed. “Of course. You are the toast of London theatre, Peter. Your name comes up often in our circles. If I refused to discuss you, it would appear…odd to him. Elliot has supported many a thespian, but never behind my back.” She moved toward him. “You’ve met with him then? Spoken to him?”
Peter swallowed hard as he thought of the tall, dark and devastatingly handsome Marquess of Egerton. He’d met the man, yes. Seen him often in many settings. Some of them not particularly savory, at least to the masses. And Egertonalwaysapproached him. Always held him captive with his dark stare, always made Peter very aware of him, and of her by proxy.
Not that they ever discussed her.
“I have,” he admitted.
“Does he know…know…” She trailed off and dropped her gaze to the floor.
“That you and I once cared for each other?”
Now Peter couldn’t help but move closer to her. Too close considering they were alone now. He’d heard the servants leaving a moment before. They were alone and he wanted to be near her because he hadn’t been for over a decade and his body actually ached for her.
She lifted her blue-green gaze. “Once?”
The way she said that one word, it was like she’d grabbed his still-broken heart and squeezed. He reached for her, dragging his fingers along the bare expanse of her forearm. He shouldn’t have, of course, but he couldn’t resist.
She still felt like silk.
Peter, she mouthed, rather than say his name out loud.
He curled his fingers around her arm now, drawing her even closer. Her breasts brushed his chest, her breath stirred against his chin as she stared up at him with longing and regret and fear and desire all merged into a potent cocktail.
He was going to kiss her. When he did, it would destroy everything in his world. Perhaps in hers, too. And he hated himself for it even as he lowered his mouth toward hers anyway.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Reid, Merritt.”
They froze at the voice at the door and for a heartbeat no one moved. But then Merritt yanked away from him and pivoted to face the marquess, who now stood in the doorway, watching them through a hooded and unreadable gaze.
* * *
Elliot
“Elliot!” Merritt gasped, shaking her head as she lifted a trembling hand toward him and then dropped it to her side. “I…we…”
She couldn’t think of anything to say, of course. Elliot didn’t expect her to, though. He had arranged for this moment, assumed it would happen. He almost regretted it now, seeing the pain and confusion on his wife’s beautiful face. She was hurting. She would hurt a little more before this was over.
But then he hoped to make it all worthwhile.
“Elliot,” she said, this time a little calmer. “What is going on?”
He arched a brow and motioned toward Peter Reid. He tried not to look at him. Tried not to mark his broad shoulders, the way his harsh jawline was outlined above the wrap of his crisp cravat.
