“Good,” he replied as his hand moved to the other breast to cup it as his thumb brushed over the evidence of her arousal. Pulling his hand from behind the edges of her pelisse, he lowered the arm from across her back and then redid the frog closures on the garment.
“What are you doing?” she asked, breathless. The pleasurable sensations his simple ministrations had created were suddenly gone.
“Putting your clothes back to rights,” he replied, his gaze darting to the window that looked out over the back gardens. “Seems the party is over, my lady.”
Dahlia’s attention went to the window, and she glanced out. Only a few servants were about in the gardens, retrieving champagne glasses and removing plates and cups from the tables. “So it is,” she whispered sadly.
Anthony let out a huff. “Since you have made it clear you don’t wish to discuss the details of a marriage with me, then I will take my leave of you.”
“What?”
“Should you wish to marry me, Lady Dahlia,youshall have to be the one to do the proposing,” he said before he bowed. “But I have a deadline I must meet, and as you said, the Season is about to start.” He turned on his heel and took his leave of the library.
Dahlia blinked several times, her breaths shallow, as if she couldn’t get enough air. “What?” she whispered in confusion.
If she hadn’t been so shocked by Anthony’s sudden departure—so surprised by his parting words and so offended by the anger that flowed from him in that last moment—she might have stomped her half-booted feet into the carpet and uttered an entirely inappropriate curse.
Instead, she leaned against the library shelf, crossed her arms over her chest, and allowed the tears to fall. She might have continued to cry for a half-hour or more but for what she heard only a moment later.
“There you are.”
