“Yes,” Ian murmured, tipping his head down to watch her watch the bird.
“Sorry. I’m a bit of a fanatic.” Her eyes were trained on the horizon.
“Good for you.” He jostled forward, closing the infinitesimal space between them. Now the roundness of her bottom was pressed deliciously against him. His body, already half erect, hardened fully. The urge to nuzzle was overshadowed by the very real need to clasp her hips, hold them in place, and grind into her. He inhaled again, savoring her vanilla scent. He heard her breath catch, but the bird had gone. She was responding tohim.
He said, “It was true what you said to the girls. About a passion making a woman more interesting.”
“You may abandon this hope when Ivy begins the xylophone,” she whispered.
He laughed and reached out, a breath from encircling herwith his arms, from pulling her to him. But the sound had somehow broken the spell.
She shivered and stumbled forward, reaching for the railing. She turned her face away, sucking in a breath.
Ian swore to himself; he felt her absence like a hood falling over his eyes. Every sense suddenly dull, crying out. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her back.
He wanted—
“But do you have a passion, Your Grace?” she asked, her voice thin and forced. She addressed her words to the railing.
“Passion?” he rasped, willing his brain to function.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry.” She raised up and took another step back. He swore again in his head.Don’t retreat, he urged.Come back.
She glanced at the door.
“My passion,” he repeated again, hoping to distract her. Hoping she would not go. “My passion was meant to be Avenelle. The dukedom. My tenants. I was determined to do justice to the land and the families and the title. My father was bollocks at managing it. But I—”
He stopped again. Arousal was still thick in his veins. He struggled to form coherent thought. He felt cagey and agitated. He turned away. The banister at the edge of the balcony was thick and flat, more of a ledge than a railing and without warning, he stepped one booted foot on top of it, like he intended to mount a giant step.
“Your Grace,” she said.
He made a grunting noise and matched the move with his second boot, stepping up. He’d never stood on this railing, but the view of the garden was considerably better from this height.
“Your Grace, please take care,” she said.
“I bungled the dukedom very early on,” he continued. “Gravely.As you’ve heard. No one in my purview has recovered. Is it a passion? Oh yes. Do I enjoy it? No, not for several years now. With no end in sight.”
“But will you come down, Your Grace?” she asked.
He glanced at her. She had the worried look of someone trying to recover a shoe from a mad dog.
“Sorry. I am a moving target.” He jumped down. “My demons are crack shots.”
“If I might suggest, Your Grace,” she began gently, “‘Lachlan’ is a title. And being a duke and managing Avenelle—these are responsibilities, not passions. Apassionis something you do purely for pleasure. For the delight of it. To stimulate and enrich you. To drive your curiosity.”
His brain caught on the wordsdelightandstimulateandpassion. He stared at her, wondering if he’d heard the same things.
She couldn’t hold his gaze, and he cursed again. What the bloody hell was he doing? He couldn’t terrorize the stylist on top of everything else. She was only now bringing the twins in line. And he was many things, but a marauder was not one of them. He mustn’t scare her.
He cleared his throat and looked away. “Avenelle is all of those things and more,” he said. “Or it was.”
“I suppose I understand a little,” she said, turning to sit on the banister. “Most everything I know about fashion and styling, I learned from observing birds.”
Ian considered this. “Oh, you mean hats? Feathered bonnets?”
“No—not hats. Or. Not only hats. I won’t bore you with the particulars, but you asked about the challenges of my appearance. I’ll give youone. No girl wants hair the color of a boiled carrot.”
“You cann—” he cut in.
