“My wife will have the best,” he replied, his gaze fixed entirely—unapologetically—upon Celine.
“Your wife is standing right here,” she reminded him, heat rising in her cheeks.
“I am aware,” he murmured, his eyes travelling slowly—deliberately—from hem to shoulder before meeting hers again. “Painfully aware.”
Sensing she intruded upon something not meant for outside observation, the modiste completed her measurements with admirable haste and departed, promising the finished garments within the week.
“That was inappropriate,” Celine said once they were alone.
“What was?”
“The way you looked at me.”
“How did I look at you?”
“Like you wished to devour me.”
A faint pause, then—“I was looking at my wife.”
“That is not an answer.”
His eyes warmed, darkened. “It is the only one I can give without overstepping myself.”
“Then overstep.”
“Not for twenty more days.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I am attempting to be honourable.”
“I do not want honour,” she said quietly. “I want my husband.”
Something in him tightened—subtle but unmistakable. He crossed the room in two decisive strides, backing her gently against the wall. “You want the Beast, is that it? That is what you ask for?”
“I wantyou. All of you. The man, the creature you fear within yourself, the landlord who sits up with sick tenants, the reckless soul who disappears into collapsing barns. Every part.”
“You could not weather every part.”
“Try me.”
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “If I begin, I will not stop. Do you understand? I will not be measured or careful or restrained. I will lose myself.”
“Promise?”
He made a low sound—half laugh, half groan. “You will be my undoing.”
“Or your salvation.”
He drew back enough to meet her eyes, and she saw everything in his—desire, dread, wonder, confusion.
“Twenty days,” he said, his voice strained.
“Nineteen and a half.”
“You are counting half days now?”
“I am counting hours. Minutes. Heartbeats.”
