“Something has to be wrong. Your voice isn’t loud.”
“Well, I’m not speechless.” I glanced up, searching the cloudy sky for stars. “Not quite a full moon, you know. That’s good. Strange things happen when the moon is full.”
“That’s what they say, Mrs. St. Maur.”
His hand became a little more demanding. He turned me to face him.
I complied and enjoyed his fine appearance—trimmed beard, thick sculpted hair with waves of curls on top, sparkling brass lenses, and those eyes, shiny and jet. “Thank you for my flowers. They are beautiful, displayed in Sandlin’s parlor and my bedroom.”
The lift of his lips turned a little wicked. A smirk attached to the corners of his kissable mouth. The gap between his teeth peeked. “Your bedchamber, you say? I was hoping you’d write with details.”
“To tell you of my bedchamber?”
“Anything. I am open to anything. I miss your notes.”
Lifting my sore wrist to him, I tugged at my glove and showed him the bandage. “Been a little too achy to write. I hope you accept my compliments and gratitude.”
My wrist became captured by his palm. I heard an angry grunt, then something mumbled about the Widow’s Grace.
Releasing me, he moved to a lit torch a few feet away. The light blazed, illuminating the gardens of the house. “I came of age here, riding horses every day until going off to school. I always liked the way Lady Shrewsbury kept the grounds.”
A secret.
The barrister seemed poised to tell one. Like a moth, I was drawn to him. Standing close to the torch, the hot, smoky scent of burning pitch whipped around us. “I’m here.”
His head dipped to mine. His black eyes were glittering crystals, and I waited for what would come next.
“Mrs. St. Maur, you could’ve sent a footman or Mr. Gerard for me. I would’ve come.”
“I’m fine now. I’ll be able to write in a week.”
“Are you in pain?” He ripped off his thin dinner gloves with his teeth and placed the balled white fabric into his pocket. Pressing thumbs along my wrist, he worked a light massage.
I coveted this easy touch, and I wished it was on my neck at the point of my spine where tension gathered.
“Mrs. St. Maur, you had me so concerned.”
“You care? Some of your friends dislike me, particularly my freckles.”
“Then they are fools. I love freckles. I also love your hair. I want to see it undone, out of these wondrous braids, hanging to your waist.”
I reclaimed my wrist from his massage. “Don’t burden yourself on my behalf.”
“It’s no burden at all. I quite like thinking of it, of you and your waist.”
“Ashbrook, I asked if you cared about me. That part you did not answer.”
“Of course, I do, as your barrister I feel—”
“You feel nothing. You left me to figure out everything. You offer no aid. Go now, before I do something crazy.”
He leaned closer. “Like kissing me again?”
Drawing my hand away, I stepped back. “No, I hadn’t thought of it.”
Ashbrook followed. “I’ve thought of it, Mrs. St. Maur. I’ve rehearsed in my head how you blush, how you taste, the way you shiver when we kiss. But then there’s the awful matter of your sending me away with a slap. Please. Please, just tell me what you want. Don’t send me away.”
I folded my arms, holding tight to my forearms. “Then stay.”
