She put her lamp down and rushed to him and even though he was already rising to his feet, she seized both his hands and dragged him back down into the chair and went to her knees on the carpet in front of him.
“I’m sorry you’re so sad, Mr. Hartwell. I wish you wouldn’t be.”
“I—” He tried to remove his hands from hers, but she held him fast.
“You must miss Mrs. Hartwell terribly.”
His face was shadowed. “I—please?—”
“I can’t allow you to cry alone. I’m sure your grief is too much to bear.”
“This isn’t . . . you must go, Lady—” He mumbled something. “Or I must go. Please let me stand.”
She looked down to where she had clasped his hands, holding them so tightly his fingers were white.
“Oh. Oh, yes.”
She let go of him and got to her feet with difficulty, her boots tangling in her nightdress. He unfolded his long, thin body from the chair and rose with far more dignity than she had.
He kept his head down. “Please forgive me. A momentary weakness.”
He walked away from the fire, giving her his back. From the movements of his arms, she guessed he was taking out a handkerchief and wiping away his tears.
He turned, and although his face was now dry, his wet lashes clung to each other, ebony spikes rimming his reddened eyes. She’d known him her whole life, and she’d never noticed his long, sooty eyelashes. Such a softness in the middle of that austere face, those chiseled cheekbones, that angled jaw and pointed chin. How could she have missed his eyelashes before?
“I hope you can forget this unfortunate circumstance. I will retire now so you can have the use of the study.”
“The use of . . . ? Oh, no, I only came in here because I saw the light. I was on my way to the stables.” She lifted her dressing gown and nightdress to show him her boots.
“Ah,” he said and raised his dark eyebrows.
It was the first time Mr. Hartwell had ever raised his eyebrows at her. She couldn’t think. Her breath got short. She waited for him to say something more, not wanting to leave yet, needing to make sure he was truly all right.
The air in the room felt very hot and close.
Finally, he bowed again and said, “Well, still, you must excuse me.” He moved towards the door.
She couldn’t let their encounter end this way. Here, at last, was her chance to help him. But her words had vanished and there was no custard to hand.
She darted forward and hugged him.
He shuddered but did not resist. He let her embrace his lean body and pin his long arms to his sides.
She looked up at him and said the only thing she could think of—the truth.
“I want you to be happy.”
Her beautiful, young, strong, healthy, decidedly female body against Oliver’s. Her breasts, her belly, her thighs.
She was one of the Stafford daughters. The oldest one. The tallest one. The gorgeous one. The one he had suddenly noticed for the first time in London a few months ago.Noticed, as a man notices a woman. Her flawless figure, her winsome face, her bright smile. But he had told himself to avert his eyes, that part of his life was over, he was a lecher, she was a child, she was his friend’s daughter, for God’s sake.
In fact, he had done such a good job of pushing her out of his mind that suddenly he couldn’t remember her name. It had slipped away. What did everyone call her? Duck? Goose?
Hen.
She looked up at him, her eyes shining in sympathy, and told him she wanted him to be happy.
He was doing his best to rebuild his stoic façade, but her words made him want to sob again. What generous hearts these Staffords had! And, in contrast, what a pitiful, mean creature he was, crying for himself.
