“You’re trying to soften me. You’re in the wrong. I won’t soften—”
“Must you talk?” Her fingers curled onto the lapel of his robe; her cheek laid upon his shoulder. “Sssshhhhh.”
He groaned, part frustration, part this intangible thing that made him so aware of her breathing, the tickle of tresses along his neck, the curl of fingers against his skin.
Holding this woman was dangerous.
Yet, his arms stayed in place. His heart beat with hers. “You like the strong, silent type?”
“Well, you’re strong, but not silent, so I may never know.”
“Grandfather was a man of few words. He’d sit at that desk over there, dictating commands to me and my cousin on everything from posture to penmanship.”
“Do you have a beautiful hand?”
Busick flexed his palm, the shrapnel scar near his thumb. “No. Colin did. Exceptional. Better than any. Markham tried to claim credit . . . I’m rambling.”
“A little.”
“Except for his rules, I suppose you’d like Grandfather’s reticence. Was Mr. LaCroy quiet? Did he do as you asked?”
She pushed away. “I’m feeling better.”
Busick should’ve followed her request and remained quiet. Then he’d still be holding her, glancing into her dark eyes, hoping to know their secrets. When would her unexpected honesty manifest into a confession that she desired him, too?
His horse should come inside and kick him. Strathmore men didn’t chase after women in their employ.
“I’m fine, Your Grace. I’ll be better when the countess arrives.”
“You don’t have to be so strong. You can be weak. I’ll not think less of you.”
“Weak?” She slipped farther away. “No.”
He hated how much room existed between them. “You’re the only one who’s made me rethink my convictions. That’s my weakness.”
“But I can’t be weak, Your Grace. It’s not allowed. I’m sure there’s a rule against it. I was taught to be strong—the perfect helpmate, hostess, and a hundred other things. I wish I had the luxury to be weak.”
He pressed forward, the distance between them evaporated. “There’s strength in a shared weakness. Confide in me.”
Shaking her head, she moved toward the unlit fireplace and stared at the mirror. “Confide in you? Fine. My thoughts are desperate enough. My marriage was not a happy one. I tried very hard to please my husband, to warn him of bad influences. He wouldn’t listen. He said he’d protect me from the slurs against our union and my heritage. I was to be away from every slight he imagined.”
“Some can be horrid.”
She lifted a shaky finger and pointed to her reflection. “His different wife; his difficult wife. His dark wife.”
“So, Mr. LaCroy was of the gentlemen class. There are expectations of whom he’s to marry, a society darling with proper looks, money, and connections. You’re beautiful, but not what thetonexpects.”
“They want my money absent my face.”
“That’s a shame. It’s a very nice face. I take it your late husband squandered your means and you now find yourself a governess?”
“Something like that.” She folded her arms about her. “It’s a little hard to be weak when my husband . . . his family has cut me off from everyone. It’s hard to trust.”
Busick sat on the sofa arm. “I’m sorry.”
She stared straight ahead at the mirror. “I was strong. I could take the slights if we faced things together.”
“Even a misguided man wants to protect his lady. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
