She listened to him move down the hall away from her. She doubled her fingers, clenching them so tightly her nails dug into her palms. She’d only had a sip.
Of course, if there had been more left in the wine bottle, she would have finished it, but there hadn’t been that much—
The sound of a bottle being thrown against the wall reverberated like the last of a gun. Leonie jumped, and then brought her fists to her stomach. She was going to be ill. He knew. He’d known all along. It was uncanny how perceptive he was about her.
And then there came a crash and another crash as if more things were being thrown.
Or were they under some sort of attack? Was Roman downstairs needing her help?
Leonie scrambled out of the bed to her valise. She quickly pulled out her nightdress and threw it over her nakedness. Picking up the lantern, she rushed down the stairs to see to her husband.
There was no attack.
He sat on a chair in the middle of the receiving room, his elbows on his thighs, his head buried in his hands. Around him were broken chairs. In the cold hearth were the fragments of the elderberry wine bottle.
Leonie froze, stunned by the power of his anger. He did not raise his head, although he had to know she was there. She held the lantern.
The tears she’d been holding back escaped. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t move at first. Instead, he seemed lost in his own world.
She set the lantern on the floor. She took an uncertain step, then another, toward him.
When she was in front of him, he pushed himself up. The lines around his mouth were tight, and yet, there was confusion and, yes, compassion in his eyes.
“Oh, Leonie, what am I going to do with you?”
“Hold me.”
Her words were a plea. She’d never asked anything of anyone before. She’d managed on her own.
But now? She feared being alone. Or what could become of her.
He wavered in indecision. She understood his struggle. If he was wise, he would run.
Instead, he opened his arms and Leonie fell into them. She wrapped herself around his shoulders and buried her face in his neck. Her thighs were around his hips, her breasts against his chest. This felt right. It felt safe. “Help me, Roman. Please help me.”
“I would that I could,” he whispered fiercely.
“Then it will be enough,” she said, praying she was right. “I don’t want to be my mother.I don’t.”
“I know. I believe you.”
“You said you thought you loved me. Please, don’t stop,” she begged.
His hands came to her shoulders. He pushed her back so that he could look in her face. “I do. God help me, I do. Even though you may be the ruin of me.”
She placed her hand on his chest, just over his heart. “I’ll be better.”
The lines of his face softened as if he feared that would not be true.
In answer, she kissed him, a frantic, questing meeting of their lips.
To her joy, he responded. He took charge. He still knew better than she what it was they needed. What she wanted.
His hands raised the skirts of her nightdress.
He was aroused. He had been from the moment she’d climbed into his lap. She’d felt the prodding, the heat. After all, he’d only buttoned the top one of his breeches and it was a small matter to release him.
