“You are sighing again, miss,” Molly observed mildly from her corner of the yellow parlour, where she was engaged in mending a hem.
“I am not sighing,” Fiona replied with dignity. “I am breathing deliberately. It strengthens the lungs.”
“If you say so.” Molly did not look up. “It does appear, however, that your lungs require particular strengthening whenever His Grace is present.”
Fiona cast her a warning glance. Molly, long immune to such tactics, smiled faintly and continued stitching.
The truth was, Fiona did not know what to do with herself. She had never been in love before—had never expected to be, frankly, given her family’s assessment of her marriageability—and the reality of it was far more consuming than any novel had prepared her for. She thought about Christian constantly. His voice, his hands, the rare warmth of his smile. The way he looked at her as though she were something precious, something miraculous, something he could not quite believe was real.
She wished to touch him.
Wished to be touched.
Wished to resume that night in the library and discover what lay beyond confession and firelight.
But Christian, confound him, seemed determined to behave like a paragon of restraint.
It was enough to drive a woman to madness.
***
Christian, for his part, was losing what little composure he possessed.
He sat in his study, a sheaf of correspondence before him, though the contents had ceased to register some twenty minutes prior. His thoughts drifted—persistently, treacherously—to Fiona.
To the warmth of her curled against him that night.
To the reverence of her mouth against the mark he had despised since childhood.
To the quiet certainty in her voice when she had said she had already fallen.
He had spent every day since attempting to keep his hands from her.
It was the right thing to do. He knew that.
She was a gentleman’s daughter. A guest beneath his roof. A woman whose reputation balanced precariously enough without his assistance. If he allowed himself to tumble her into bed—or onto the library settee, or against the shelves he knew far too well—he would prove every fear he had ever harboured about himself.
He wished to be better.
For her.
But restraint was an unrelenting discipline.
Every time she entered a room, his body responded. The rustle of her skirts, the scent of her perfume, the musical quality of her laugh—all of it conspired to drive him to distraction. He found himself inventing excuses to be near her, then inventing excuses to maintain distance.
He lay awake at night, recalling the weight of her in his arms and forced himself to remain in his own chamber when every instinct urged him elsewhere.
He was a duke. Eight-and-twenty years of age. Master of an estate and its responsibilities.
He had faced obstinate tenants, failing harvests, and even—memorably—a ferocious goose that had terrorised the kitchen garden for the better part of a summer.
Surely he could withstand one woman.
And yet.
A knock at his study door interrupted his brooding.
“Enter.”
