“You are a fool,” she told herself.
She pressed her hand flat against her own chest now and felt the echo of it, her pulse racing to match a rhythm that belonged to a man who was miles away and who she had no business thinking about in a darkened bedroom with the fire burning low and the night stretching out ahead of her.
But she thought about him anyway. She thought about the rough edge of his voice when he told her she deserved to have what she wanted. She thought about the weight of his gaze moving over her face, unhurried and consuming. She thought about the seconds when she had kissed him back, when every principle she held dear had dissolved into the simple, devastating truth that she wanted him.
Heat stirred low in her belly. She pressed her forehead harder against the glass and willed it away.
It did not leave. It settled and spread, warm and persistent. Lily stood at the window for a long time, watching the empty street and feeling the ghost of Hugo’s mouth against hers and hating, with every fiber of her being, how much she wanted to feel it again.
CHAPTER 11
“Thornwaite, are you listening?”
Hugo blinked. Lord Ashton sat across from him in the leather wingback, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, his brows raised. Beside him, Sir Philip Graves nursed a brandy and watched Hugo with mild amusement.
“Forgive me.” Hugo shifted in his chair and reached for his own glass. “What were you saying?”
“The canal shares. The proposal from Barrett and Sons. I asked whether you intended to increase your position before the quarter.”
“I am still considering it.”
He was not considering it. He had not considered anything related to canal shares, Barrett and Sons, or the quarterly reports that Ashton had been discussing for the better part oftwenty minutes. His mind was on a balcony at the Theatre Royal, and no amount of brandy, cigar smoke, or conversation about shipping investments was going to dislodge it.
The kiss he’d shared with Lady Lily replayed behind his eyes in fragments. The catch of her breath when his mouth found hers. The way her fingers had curled into his waistcoat, gripping the fabric, pulling him closer with a strength that surprised him.
The taste of champagne and rosewater on her lips and the three seconds—he had counted them, because apparently, he was now a man who counted seconds—when she had kissed him back with a hunger that matched his own.
His blood heated. He shifted his weight and took a long pull of brandy.
It was desire. Nothing more. He had not bedded a woman since this arrangement began, and his body was responding to the drought with predictable urgency.
Lily Readthorpe was beautiful and sharp, and she smelled of rosewater, and he had kissed her, and now every nerve in his body wanted more.
The mechanics were simple. The solution was simpler: help her catch Wilfrey’s attention, dissolve the engagement, and return to the life he had been living before a forged pamphlet had upended everything.
“You seem distracted, Thornwaite.” Sir Philip set down his glass. “I do not believe I have ever seen you stare into a fireplace for quite so long without making a joke about it.”
“I was contemplating the flames. Very philosophical.”
“You were contemplating something.” Philip’s mouth curved. “Or someone.”
“Leave him alone, Graves.” Lord Harcourt settled into the chair beside Ashton and stretched his legs toward the fire. He was older than the others, silver at the temples, with the comfortable build of a man who enjoyed port and had stopped apologizing for it. “The man is engaged. He is entitled to a bit of distraction.”
“Precisely.” Hugo seized the opening. “I find myself consumed by thoughts of my fiancée. It is a terrible affliction. I recommend avoiding it entirely.”
Ashton laughed. Philip raised his glass in mock salute.
“And how is the lovely Lady Lily?” Harcourt asked. “Settling into the role of future Duchess?”
“With characteristic determination.” Hugo turned the glass in his fingers. “She is a remarkable woman. I count myself fortunate.”
The words came out smoothly, practiced, carrying the weight of a devoted fiancé without any strain. He had been performingvariations of this speech at every event for more than a week, and the ease with which it left his mouth should have been reassuring. Instead, it sat wrong in his chest, not because it was a lie, but because he was no longer certain which parts of it were.
“My wife has been singing her praises,” Harcourt continued. “Says she has a sharp mind. High marks from Lady Harcourt. She does not impress easily.”
“Lady Lily has an exceptional mind. Not just sharp.” Hugo drained his brandy and set the glass aside.
“Careful, Thornwaite.” Philip grinned. “You almost sounded sincere.”
