* * *
Standing close to Ravenworth, Eve was acutely aware of his masculine presence. The scent of him alone–of sandalwood and pine–was enough to make her insides shiver. And although she hadn’t considered him handsome in the classical sense to begin with, the intensity with which he studied her, the focus with which he addressed each subject of conversation, and the manner in which he carried himself were so attractive, she could not help but be drawn to him in a way she’d never been drawn to any man before.
It was wrong, of course. She was well aware. He was an earl, and she was practically nobody. And then there was the impropriety of the whole situation, of her being in his home without a chaperone and about to spend the night there. She ought to be dreading every moment of it. Instead, she was thrilled with the prospect of having him near and of…trying to understand her curious reaction toward him.
It felt strange–as if her body could not decide if it wished to be hot or cold. Her stomach had started to twist itself into various knots each time he glanced her way, and she could feel the occasional tremor darting across her skin whenever he was close enough to touch.
It was most unsettling really, but it was also something so curious it demanded further exploration, if only to understand it. So she steeled herself and moved a bit nearer to where he was standing. It happened at the exact same moment he took a step toward her. The movement brought her almost shoulder to shoulder with him, and yes, there it was again, that strange lurch in the pit of her belly. A surge of heat rose up her spine, flushing her skin. She hastily added more distance by going toward the display case spanning the length of the wall. Heart pounding, she tried to focus on what it contained while she made every effort to slow her galloping pulse.
“Are those real?” she finally asked, when she realized what she was looking at.
“Yes. Some are from hothouse bouquets, others are wildflowers picked in various parts of the country. I paint them with gold leaf so they can last forever.” There was a slight pause, and then, from behind her left shoulder, “I also appreciate the beauty.”
Eve’s heart ricocheted wildly as Ravenworth’s breath brushed over the back of her neck. Her lungs struggled to draw breath, and there was something else, something that hadn’t been there before. Unsure of what it might be, Eve remained perfectly still while pretending to show great interest in all of the gilded flowers. But inside, she was in turmoil. Her body began responding more urgently to Ravenworth’s nearness. Which was silly, since she’d only met him a few hours earlier, not to mention incredibly embarrassing, when he would never be equally attracted to her.
Sobered by her reflection, she moved away to admire the rest of the room. He’d set up a table–a workspace with flowers carefully stored in transparent glass boxes, a few brass containers, what appeared to be a small oil-powered stove, and various tools. “You should turn these into jewelry,” she said, once the table was placed between them and there was less risk of her melting into a needy puddle of inexplicable desire.
Because that was what this was, wasn’t it? Her mother had warned Josephine about it years ago, about how it could divest both man and woman of their senses and prompt them to ignore the consequences. It was nature’s way of securing a continuation of the species, but it was wrong to allow outside the bounds of marriage. And since she would not marry him, she would have to ignore the effect he’d started having on her. She would stay one night. Surely she could get through it without losing her sanity. After all, she was here to see her friend, not to cavort with an earl.
“I have done so with a few of the pieces.” He went to a drawer and pulled out a flat box. Setting it on the table, he opened it to reveal a rose pendant attached to a gold chain. His eyes met hers. “What do you think?”
“It is lovely. Absolutely lovely.”
“In that case, it is yours.” He held the box toward her.
Eve stared at it before peering back up at him, her skin tightening across her body in response to the forcefulness of his gaze. She shook her head. “I couldn’t possibly.” Her heart thudded loudly and she forced herself to retreat all the way to the door. Once there, she swallowed hard while steadying herself against the doorframe. “Thank you for your hospitality this evening, but I find I am rather exhausted. If you’ll excuse me, I must…I must…”
Her breath caught, and words became impossible to speak while he simply stood there watching her with a hooded expression. “Good night,” she finally managed, upon which she fled. Because to remain there alone with him in that room, overcome by the masculinity he exuded, would be like playing with fire. And if there was one thing she hoped to avoid doing, it was getting burned.
* * *
Bryce watchedher agitated departure with interest. She’d seemed especially flustered since entering this room and increasingly so, the closer he’d moved to where she’d stood. Sighing, he closed the jewelry box and returned it to the drawer. What the hell had he been thinking to offer her such a gift? The gesture had likely offended her in its impropriety. A man did not give jewelry to a woman unless she was his wife or his mistress. But when he’d seen her reaction to the piece–the appreciation shining in her eyes while she’d stood there admiring it–he’d felt as though it ought to be hanging around her neck instead of being hidden away from the world.
Leaving the room, he headed back to the library, removed his jacket, and kicked off his shoes. Radcliff had a point. He should not be sleeping on the same floor as Miss Potter. It would not be right, nor would it allow him a moment’s rest, knowing she was but a few doors away, tucked into the comfortable bed she’d mentioned at supper.
Groaning, he turned down the oil lamps so only a dim glow from the fire remained, then settled himself on the sofa and prepared to get some rest. But sleep was impossible to find when contemplating his houseguest produced a flare of heat in his loins. The clock chimed midnight, and Bryce blew out a breath. Throwing his arm over his eyes, he tried to find a distraction, something with which to cool his ardor.
Seventeen multiplied by eight, divided by four, and subtracted from five hundred and fifty nine…
A creak caught his attention. Pausing to listen, he heard it again. It sounded like it came from the hallway, so he held his breath and glanced at the door. Perhaps it was Radcliff making a final round to ensure no lights had been left burning, though it was rather late for that.
The door eased open, and a figure that definitely did not belong to his butler appeared. Mesmerized, Bryce watched Miss Potter enter the room. She was carrying an oil lamp, ,the glow from it bathing the nightgown she wore in golden light.
Christ!
He squinted through the darkness, aware she was unlikely to notice him, which allowed him to do what no gentleman would ever consider doing, and simply observe.
Carefully, she moved toward the bookcase, bringing her slightly closer. Setting her lamp on a nearby table, she turned up the light a little until…
Bryce clenched his hands and bit back a growl while he watched the opaque white cotton she wore turn translucent. Feeling his chest work against his attempt at keeping his ragged breathing as soft as possible, he watched her rise up onto her toes and pick a book from a higher shelf. The nightgown rose with her, sliding up over her legs. And then, as if that weren’t enough, she grabbed the book and turned around, allowing him a blatant view of her perfectly rounded breasts, outlined by the fabric.
Closing his eyes, Bryce began counting backward from one thousand.
He was going to die, plain and simple.
“What happened to him?”some would ask, and others would answer,“I hear he was consumed by lust.”
A limerick would probably mark his headstone. Something along the lines of:
