Holy bleeding hell.She wasnota girl on a village wall, she was a goddess who’d fallen from the sky and settled in the window.
Her pale face was half obscured by her hair.So much hair. Ian stared, distracted like a—well, like a man who’d seen a beautiful woman.
“Hello,” he repeated.
Her expression was open, innocent, and uncertain. It was the same way she’d stared at him in the gallery. It propelled him in a way he would not have imagined. His mouth watered and his body grew languid and heavy. The reaction was strange, because he’d never before dealt in innocents; his uncle had taught him better than to chase after virginal women. His past lovers had been aggressively assured of what they wanted and how they wanted it. The untried, open question on her face was an elixir from which he wanted to drink and drink and drink.
But first things first. He’d come in to discuss any of anumber of arrangements not yet defined about their future. To sort out where they’d live and when, to tell her of access to his carriages, to ask how he might assist in the plans for her finishing school. Perhaps all of that could wait.
He took another step toward her. Softly, he said, “Are you well, Miss Trela—” He stopped and chuckled. “May I call you Drew?”
Her large teal eyes had, remarkably, grown larger. She nodded her head.
Another step.
Her hair obscured the straps of her night rail, but he’d caught a flash of bare shoulder. Oh, and her throat—also bare. Every new glimpse of creamy skin set off a pulse of desire.
“Yes,” she said, a whisper. “Call me Drew if you like.”
She scooted back on the window seat. The movement caused her hair to slide away, the parting of a curtain. His breath caught. She wore a slip of ivory silk so transparent he could make out the outline of her breasts, the curve of her hip, the shape of her thigh.
Ian’s body, already hardening, turned to stone; his vision became a tunnel that blocked all but her, cream skin and red hair and aquamarine eyes, glowing in the moonlight. His purpose in life became only her.
“Will you call me Ian?” he asked gently, taking another step. “We’re married, after all.”
“Yes,” she said, and the huskiness of her voice was a caress.
She watched him advance like a cat watches a toy on a string, mesmerized, a little leery, voracious.
“I hope you don’t mind the new maid. I should have asked you, but I thought of it too late. Or rather, Her Royal Highness, Princess Cynde, suggested it, too late—as in this morning. I dared not trouble you with it on such a busy day. If the woman doesn’t please you—”
“She seems very proficient,” Drew said. “Thank you.”
“When I heard excitable voices through the door,” hesaid, “I worried she was somehow taking you to task. She’s not a scold, I hope?”
The slightest blush stained her cheeks and throat. “No,” she said, looking at her hands in her lap. “She’s not a scold.”
“Well, I cannot complain with her ministrations. You look... beautiful.”
Her head shot up. “I’m wearing, um...” Her eyes held a look of mild horror, as if he’d caught her wearing stolen shoes.
“Beautiful,” he repeated, stepping to the edge of the window seat.
He wanted to reach for her; it was almost his only thought. If he reached for her, it was doubtful she would resist him, but this felt, for some reason, like the wrong play.
He couldask herif she would welcome his touch, but this also felt off. Too logistical. They’d spent the day going through the motions of an event that should have, by all accounts, been far more sentiment than mere sequence. All of the formal and rote “do you takes” and “I vow tos...”
This moment, perhaps, called for a more intimate touch.
“Is there room for me on this window seat, Miss Trelayne?” he asked.
She blinked at him. “I thought you intended to call me Drew.”
“And perhaps I will. Or perhaps ‘Miss Trelayne’ is too familiar and pleasant to let go. Perhaps I’ve not yet decided what I’ll call you. I’ve not heard you call me Ian.”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Now you’re taunting me.” She hadn’t invited him to sit but she hadn’t told him to go away, so he lowered himself onto the velvet cushion. He leaned back against the cold glass and propped one foot on the ledge, resting his elbow on his knee. He took a deep breath. His heartbeat had kicked up. Could she hear it? It was deafening inside his head.
