What would it have been like,she wondered,had the interruption not come? Had we not drawn apart?
What would it have been like to be kissed by a man who looked at me like that?
She did not have an answer. And she suspected sleep would remain elusive until she found one.
***
In his study, Benjamin sat in darkness and stared at nothing.
His hand still tingled with the memory of her skin. His pulse had yet to steady.
I almost kissed her.
The thought circled relentlessly.
I almost kissed my wife.
It ought not to have been remarkable. She was his wife. To kiss her was neither improper nor unexpected—merely the natural expression of the bond they had agreed to share.
Yet their bond had been founded upon practicality. Their marriage upon convenience. They had promised one another security, respect, and freedom from expectation.
He had never promised he would not want her.
He had simply never expected to want her like this—with a desperation that frightened him, a hunger that threatened to overwhelm every carefully constructed wall he had built around his broken heart.
She looked at me, he thought.She looked at me as though she wanted it too.
But what if I was wrong? What if I misread the moment? What if I am simply seeing what I want to see, because I want it so desperately?
He lowered his head into his hands.
For years, he had accepted that he could never be loved—that his scars, his silence, his memories had rendered him beyond such hope. He had arranged his life accordingly, embracing solitude, duty, and the quiet satisfaction of feeding a creature that would likely never trust him fully.
And then Eleanor had come.
Eleanor, who did not recoil. Eleanor, who remained when he revealed the darkest fragments of himself. Eleanor, who regarded his scars and saw only the man beneath them.
Eleanor, whose breath had caught when he touched her face.
I should apologise, he thought.Tomorrow. I should apologise, explain that it was a moment of weakness, and assure her it will not happen again.
Yet even as the thought formed, he recognised it for falsehood.
He did not wish to apologise. He did not wish to promise restraint.
He wished to go to her chamber now and complete what had been interrupted. To cradle her face between his hands and kiss her until thought deserted them both. To tell her everything he had never learned how to say—that she had brought light into his darkness, warmth into his cold, hope into a life he had believed finished.
He wished.
Sweet mercy, he wished.
Benjamin remained alone in the dark, sleepless, wondering how long he could continue to pretend that wanting was not, in truth, indistinguishable from needing.
Chapter Seventeen
“You are earlier than usual, Your Grace.”
Mrs Harding’s observation carried a note of surprise that Eleanor chose to ignore. She settled into her chair at the breakfast table and reached for the teapot with what she hoped was an air of casual indifference.
