“Hello,” he murmured, rolling his head to the side to look at her. She made a small noise, half murmur, half giggle.She was nervous but not frightened. She had the look of someone who was next in line to jump over a hedge on a strong horse.
“Hello,” she replied, a whisper.
“Did you enjoy the wedding, Lady Lachlan? And the breakfast?”
“Oh yes. Very much.” She shifted in the seat. Her tense-shouldered, propped-knee perch was less stable with his considerable weight on the cushions. Carefully, she scooted to the glass behind them, taking pains to tuck her long creamy legs, dotted (he could now see) with strawberry freckles, beneath her. The thin silk was pulled taut across her thighs and gaped above her breasts. Her hair spilled around her in a waterfall of red. She reached up deftly to gather it over her shoulder and dropped it in her lap. This left the closer shoulder exposed to him. The silk was held in place by a lone ivory strap. Ian licked his lips. He was, he realized,starvedfor the taste of her. Had he known how much he wanted her? Could a man starve and not realize it until he was seated next to a feast?
“What about the wedding pleased you most?” he rasped.
“Well, I suppose that I liked...” she began softly, “...that when it was over, I was married,” she said, finally looking at him shyly.
If she left off the wordsto you—When it was over, I was marriedto you—Ian elected not to dwell.
“Better than deportation to Canada, is it?” he ventured, lolling his head closer to her. The window box smelled of old velvet and chilly condensation, but the closer he inched, the more he smelled the soft vanilla scent he remembered as distinctively hers. He’d worn his boots, and suddenly he wanted them off. He’d worn his waistcoat, and he wanted that off too. He wanted everything off. But he’d come in to talk—a single, closed-mouth peck had been his greatest ambition—and not to do... whatever they were doing. He was in favor of it, strongly in favor, but he was dressed entirely wrong. Idly, he began to loosen his cravat.
“I was always wretched at being young,” she volunteered, looking up.
He paused with the neck cloth. “I beg your pardon?”
“My existence,” she explained. “As a young woman. I was a failure at it. That is, I was never very good at most girlish, whimsical, romantic maneuverings. Before I... transformed, when I looked a bit different and behaved a lot differently, I wastoo muchof everything. And it put people off. Friends, would-be suitors, everyone, really. I was too colorful, too erratic, too aggressive, too... selfishly focused on myself.
“When Itransformed, I seemed to be not colorful or impulsive or erratic enough. I am better off embodying a mature... sort ofagedexistence—that much is clear—even if I am not yet literallyold. Well, not terribly old. I could never seem to make a go of the great mystery that is Young Womanhood—not as an identity, not really—but I’d grown certain that I’d make an excellent spinster.”
“Sto—”
She held up a hand. “Oh no please, do not worry—I’d made peace with it. I’d anticipated my life ‘on the shelf,’ as they say. There is a pressure, an expectation, for young women to be alluring. What I’ve wanted is to be old enough for that expectation to... drop off.”
“Are you saying marriage to me sabotaged your long-awaited future as some sort of... of—”
“Old maid?” she finished with a chuckle. “Oh no, not at all. Marriage is an unexpected change of course for me—yes. But it’s not necessarily an unwanted one. I was traveling down the road to...”
“Spinsterhood?” he asked, still in disbelief.
She nodded sagely. “I was resigned to it. Now I find myself taking a different path. But the destination remains the same. As a married matron, I’ll be protected from any expectation of... of allure or—”
“Stop talking,” Ian rasped. His voice was just above awhisper. He extended one finger and placed it gently on her bottom lip.
Her teal eyes flew to his.
“I’ll not listen to you talk about yourself as if you do not incite desire.” He removed his finger.
“As if I don’t incite...”
“Do I appeardisinterestedin you, Miss Trelayne?”
“I beg your pardon?” This time, it was a question.
“Drew,” he said. “Do I seem like a man who feels no desire for you?”
Slowly, she shrugged.
“No truly, I’d like to know,” he pressed.
“I... I could not say, Your Grace,” she tried.
Ian narrowed his eyes. They’d circled back to theYour Gracehe realized. Fine. So be it. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage.
He eyed her, considering a kiss. It would take no effort to close the distance between them and claim her mouth. Few gestures would demonstrate his very significant desire more clearly. However, unless he was mistaken, the situation wanted something more.
