Her heart. Oh, God, he was troubled aboutherheart, after she’d threatened Amelia?
The dark room pressed in on her as panic welled in her chest. She couldn’t bear it—his hurt, or his tenderness. “She’ll blame you for it. She’ll hate you for it. If I were in her place, I’d hate you, too.”
Blame me. Hate me.
But even as she lashed out at him, tried to slice at him with her jagged words, he touched her, soothed her, his hands gentle on her face, in her hair, against her neck. His green eyes were still dark with hurt, but as they searched her face, she saw something else there, something that silenced her protests, froze her in his grasp.
Longing.
“Do you hate me even now, Eleanor?” His voice was husky, and so quiet it seemed to come from the darkness itself. “Is there no hope for us?”
Before she could answer, he bent his head and touched his lips to hers.
Eleanor trembled at the restrained passion in his kiss. He held his desire ruthlessly in check, his lips tender on hers, the kiss a confession, and a question.
Is thereno hope for us?
A wish, and a plea.
His hands moved to cradle her face. He stroked his thumbs across her cheekbones and pressed his lips harder against hers, but soft still, so sweet, his touch, as if he sought to give back to her some of what he’d taken.
She couldn’t let him—couldn’t take what he’d give her. She’d found a way to escape him at last, but his kiss would imprison her again, and this time it would be far worse.
This time, she’d want to stay.
“No, Cam.” She turned her head aside and pushed against his chest.
He raised his head, stared down at her. Half his face was lost in the shadows, his breath shallow and quick. Just when she thought he’d take her lips again, he set her away from him. For a moment he seemed to struggle with himself, then, “Go to bed, Eleanor.”
She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She could only stare up at him, a cold ache in her chest.
He ran a weary hand through his hair. “Please. Now. If you stay here, I’ll kiss you again, and this time I won’t be able to stop.”
And I won’t be able to make you.
Somehow she managed to grasp her skirts and turn away from him. She fled up the stairs, and within minutes she was in her bedchamber, her back flat against the closed door.
Dear God. What had just happened?
She pressed a shaking hand to her forehead and tried to think, but the thoughts were jumbled in her head. Had he freed her, or did he still think to force her into marriage? Oh, she didn’t know, because his words were tangled up with the memory of his mouth on hers, so soft and sweet—not a claim, and not a demand. A plea, yes, but something more than that, too, something infinitely more precious . . .
A gift.
She touched her fingers to her lips.Why? What had he—
The door vibrated against her back. Eleanor jumped away from it, then whirled around to stare at it. Someone had knocked. Had Cam followed her? If he had, how would she ever be able to escape him a second time, when every inch of her heated skin clamored for his touch? She wouldn’t answer the door—
“Lady Eleanor? I’ve brought my sketches, as I promised.”
Amelia.
Eleanor’s body sagged with relief. Of course. She’d invited Amelia to her room this evening so she could see her sketches of the ruins. Had that only been this afternoon? It seemed impossible her entire world could have tilted off its axis in a matter of a few hours.
She opened the door and Amelia stood there, clad in her night dress, her fair hair in two plaits down her back. Her face was eager, and she had a sketchbook tucked under her arm.
Despite her agitation, Eleanor made herself take a deep breath. She forced a smile to her lips. “Amelia. Come in. You’ve finished your dinner?”
“Yes, ages ago. Miss Norwood and I ate early, in the nursery, though I do think it would have been so much nicer if I were permitted to have my dinner downstairs, as I do with Denny when we’re in London.”
