Had she been wrong in what she truly wanted? She’d told herself that it was Willanton, and the fact that women had more freedom, or at least two of them did. Was it a lie that she chose to believe? Was the true draw to Willanton actually Ambrose Hall and the residents who lived within these walls?
The truth was, Althea wanted Melcombe. She wanted to feel his arms about her, to find comfort in knowing that she wasn’t alone and wouldn’t be alone. However, she also wasn’t willing to be anything that was more than a governess but less than a wife. That would be far worse than being alone. Therefore, she’d need to make decisions on how to move forward and find what would truly bring happiness.
“I should retire.” She finished her brandy and stood. “Tomorrow will be tedious, I promise,” referring to her earlier explanation of visiting a modiste. “It can also be trying, so I should rest now.”
Preston set his glass aside. “I’ll walk you up.”
“There is no need.” Why would he make such an offer? He never had before.
Althea’s heart pounded, recalling his desire to kiss her, and if he attempted the same again, would she deny him?
She must.
“I plan to retire as well,” he said.
Althea simply nodded and made her way toward the stairs, Melcombe by her side, walking next to her, not behind or ahead, and she was aware of his presence as they ascended to the next level.
A light scent of Sandalwood wafted about him. She’d not noticed it before, and it was quite pleasant. His hand brushed hers, sending heat up her arm.
They turned when they reached the corridor. Althea needed to pass the entry to his chamber to go above to her own set of rooms.
Tension mounted as they neared and she hoped he’d say something, and at the same time, would disappear into his room without saying anything, and she’d continue on her way.
As they passed, Lord Melcombe stopped at his chamber door, which stood open. She walked on, and just as she turned to go up the stairs, he called to her.
“Miss Claywell.”
She hesitated and then turned.
His eyes bore into hers. He opened his mouth as if he wished to speak but said nothing. Then tried again. “I…um…well I…” He sighed. “Goodnight, Miss Claywell.”
“Goodnight, Lord Melcombe.” Then she turned and did her best not to rush up the remainder of the stairs. Once she gained her set of rooms, Althea changed and crawled into her bed where she spent the rest of the night, restless and wondering what he had wished to say to her.
Chapter Eighteen
Hewasabloodyfool.
Preston pulled off his suit coat, balled it up, and threw it at the chair. His valet may not be pleased, but Preston didn’t care.
He just had the perfect opportunity and an intimate setting to voice his heart and desire, but the words had failed him. All he could think about was her beauty, even with that silly gold crown upon her head. The dress she’d worn today was grey, and on any other, would be depressing, but the color suited her, especially when a midnight curl fell, framing her face—light against the dark.
Her scent of honeysuckle, mixed with the aroma of evergreen, which had likely come from her carrying the greenery from the household, wafted about her while they played the game, distracting and drawing him close. Her concentration, as she leaned forward, studying the sticks, pearl teeth biting the corner of her bottom lip, made him want to kiss her. Then, the way her bodice gaped, offering a view of the creamy swells of her breasts, had made him uncomfortable with need. Thank goodness they’d all been seated on the floor and his arousal had been hidden, otherwise, Preston would have needed to excuse himself.
He had finally had her near, where he could speak his mind, and confess his feelings. Tell her that he’d begun to care for her in London and that no matter how inexplicable, he was falling in love and to admit that the marriage proposal had come from him. He had been determined to say all of that to her and considered his words carefully as they climbed the stairs. But when the opportunity presented itself and he was determined, panic set in and the words had failed him. He’d also wanted to take her hand and pull her into his chamber, bar the door, and strip that grey gown from her body, so that his eyes could feast and then his mouth.
He should not allow lust and insecurity to rule his mind and body, yet they had.
The last thing he needed was another glass of brandy, but Preston retrieved the bottle hidden in a cupboard along with a glass and poured.
They could still be in the parlor. He could be devouring her lips this very moment had he not ruined the evening when he asked a personal question, and suddenly she grew sad. He wished to know why but feared to ask. Miss Claywell claimed that she was tired, but that was not what he saw in her green eyes. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was loneliness.
He didn’t understand. In London she’d been surrounded by her court, and there were friends as well. She had her uncle, but her cousins no longer lived on the estate. He longed to know if she had close friends, someone to share her thoughts, dreams, and secrets. He had Alec, though men shared confidences and plans, but a close friend served the same purpose no matter what the gender.
He knew as well as anyone that much of what was seen in London was false. Were those he assumed to be friends only acquaintances and was it lonely living on a large estate with the only company being an older uncle?
Another opportunity lost tonight. He hadn’t even talked to her as they came above stairs. He wanted to tell her that he thought her beautiful. He wanted to explain his desire. He wanted to confess what he hoped that they could become, but he couldn’t utter the words because he was a bloody coward and afraid of rejection.
It would serve him right if he never won her.
