“No.”
“There it is again.”
His eyes darkened. “You are determined to quarrel.”
“I am determined to understand the boy I am expected to help raise.”
“You are expected to be kind to him, not dig through matters that are none of your concern.”
The words hit so sharply that for a moment they almost drove the breath from her.
Aaron’s shy smile rose before her. His small bow. His quiet confession in the library that fear was loud. The way he had leaned against her in the carriage as if her shoulder were the first soft place he had found in too long. The way his stammer worsened beneath his father’s cold correction until the words could no longer leave him.
Emmeline stepped closer. “He is my concern.”
Rowan’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then snapped back to her eyes. “You have decided that quickly.”
“Children do not require years to become worthy of care.”
His expression tightened. “You think me cruel.”
“I think you are frightened.”
The silence went sharp.
Rowan’s eyes flashed. “Careful.”
“Of what? Your temper? Your pride? Your habit of leaving rooms when feeling threatens to enter them?”
He stepped closer, and the heat of him reached her before his shadow did. “You have grown very fond of accusing me of cowardice.”
“I did not use the word.”
“You meant it.”
“Perhaps I did.”
“And did you come here to fight me, Duchess?” he asked, his voice dropping. “Or to tempt me?”
Emmeline stilled.
For one wild second, everything else vanished. Aaron's grief, anger, all of it drowned beneath the sudden, hot memory of Rowan’s mouth devouring hers. He was so close now that she could see the faint shadow of beard along his jaw, the pulse at histhroat, the restraint tightening his body the longer she remained near him.
Her breath caught before she could stop it.
His gaze lowered to her mouth, and when he spoke again, his voice was rough enough to scrape over her skin. “You should not look at me like that if you intend only to lecture.”
“I am not looking at you in any particular way.”
His hand lifted, not touching her, only hovering near the end of her braid where it lay over her shoulder. The almost-touch was worse than contact. Her whole body leaned toward it without permission, and she hated that he could make her feel exposed without laying a finger on her. Her skin had begun to burn beneath the wrapper. The fire was not nearly close enough to explain it.
“You came to my room last night,” he said softly.
Her throat tightened. “And you sent me away.”
“I have thought about that kiss all day,” he said.
The blunt confession made heat flare through her face, her chest, lower. “Yes. You did.”
