Neither made the faintest move toward the door.
Her chin tilted. “Is there anything else you wish to add?”
“Only that you are incapable of following through on your threats of departure.”
“I am perfectly capable,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
He should have let her go. He didn’t.
Instead, Clara stepped closer, her hand rising hesitantly to his collar, fingers brushing the edge of his cravat as though she might steady herself by touching him. “There. Presentable.”
Gabriel caught her wrists before she could retreat, her palms flattening against his chest where his heart drummed with alarming insistence. “Clara.”
“This is a dreadful idea,” she whispered, her eyes darting to his.
“The very worst.”
“We have rules.”
“No touching.”
“We’re hopeless at rules.”
“Disastrously so.”
Her breath trembled between them. “We ought to stop.”
“Immediately,” he agreed, yet neither moved.
He felt the moment he surrendered to it, the quiet collapse of resistance, and the inevitable pull of her. His hands slid from her wrists to cradle her face, thumbs tracing the fragile curve of her jaw. Her lashes fluttered, her lips parted, and reason slipped quietly from the room.
One kiss, he told himself. Just one, if only to prove that it wouldn’t ruin him completely.
He lowered his head, their lips a breath apart…
"Gabriel! I forgot to mention…" Edmund burst through the door, took in the scene, and immediately about-faced. "I'll come back. In an hour. Or a year. Yes, a year seems good."
Clara jerked away as if burned, her face crimson. "I have to…interview…list…" She fled, nearly running over Edmund in her haste to escape.
Gabriel stood there, hands still raised as if holding her ghost, body tight with unfulfilled desire and pure frustration.
"So," Edmund said conversationally, still facing the wall. "Should I continue looking away, or have we returned to pretending that didn't almost happen?"
“Leave now.”
"As you wish” Edmund paused at the door. "Wear the green waistcoat. It matches her eyes."
Gabriel threw a boot at him.
CHAPTER 9
The interviews were a disaster.
Not because the candidates were incompetent, Clara had somehow found the six most qualified servants in Sussex. No, they were a disaster because Gabriel couldn't focus on anything except the way Clara's tongue darted out to wet her lips when she was concentrating, or how she tucked that one rebellious strand of hair behind her ear every few minutes, or the way her neck curved when she bent to make notes.
Focus, you degenerate, he commanded himself, shifting in his chair for the dozenth time.You're supposed to be evaluating staff, not fantasizing about your housekeeper.
Temporary housekeeper. Temporary everything. She'd be gone in spring, and he'd be alone again, which was what he desired.
