A warmth unfurled low in her stomach—slow, deliberate, undeniable.
It startled her less than it should have.
No one had ever spoken of such things to her. Desire was not a subject afforded to respectable women. It was assumed absent. Suppressed. Unnecessary.
And yet her body knew.
She wanted him.
Not as a curiosity. Not as a rebellion.
As a woman.
The realisation steadied her rather than shamed her.
He was beautiful.
Not in the way society defined beauty—not delicate, not refined, not anything so tame. He was beautiful the way a storm was beautiful, the way a cliff face was beautiful, the way wild things were beautiful when you glimpsed them in their element.
She must have made some small sound, for his head turned sharply toward the door.
Their eyes met.
Shock crossed his face. Then alarm. Then something far more dangerous—exposure.
His hand rose instinctively to his throat, as though he might conceal what she had already seen.
“Miss Hart.” His voice was roughened by exertion. “You should not be here.”
She did not retreat.
“I was exploring.” Her own voice betrayed more breath than she intended. “I heard the noise. I did not mean to intrude.”
“You are seeing—” He faltered. His hand remained at his open collar, fingers pressing against skin as though he might conceal it. “You should go.”
“Why?”
The word left her before caution could intervene.
She did not advance yet. She simply stood there, meeting his gaze.
“Because I have seen your birthmark?” she asked more quietly. “I was aware of it already. The servants ensure no one remains ignorant.”
“Knowing and seeing are not the same.” His jaw tightened. “Now you understand why they name me what they do. Why my own mother could scarcely—”
He broke off.
Something inside her hardened at the shame in his voice.
“I do not understand it at all,” she said.
His eyes flicked to hers.
“I think it is beautiful.”
The silence that followed felt different now. Not shocked. Not explosive.
Weighted.
