“I think so too, Miss Cosgrove. How else to know if you wanted to put your backside in a chair for a given amount of time if you don’t know how it would…feel?”
And there it was. That strange connection Helen sensed between them. The shared commonality of thought even though they were worlds apart. The spark of sameness mingled with her physical attraction to him, making what existed between them, all the more real.
Drat.
“Now that you are aware of my preferences, I ask again, what are you doing here?”
“I enjoy the view.” His gaze lingered on her. “Also, the gate was wide open. Anyone could walk in.”
Someone did.
The gate at the back of the garden wall had a large padlock with a chain, probably to keep Cerise from inviting gentlemen in or allowing her to sneak out. This Roxboro had either picked the lock or climbed over the fence, risked being seen, all so that he might see Helen.
Flattering, even if he was a thief.
“The staff or anyone else,” Helen said with a slight tremble. “Might come upon…you in Lord Galway’s garden, Your Grace.”
“True. True.” There was no concern written across his handsome features. “But it only matters that you did, Miss Cosgrove.” He stretched out, propping himself up on one elbow to watch her, like some large tomcat begging for a scratch behind his ears.
I’ve always wanted a cat.
“I wonder if you’d reconsider.” He raised a brow.
“Reconsider?”
His fingers, elegant and—were those scars across his knuckles?—spread through the thick grass towards her. “I like a bit of crimson. Do you object?”
“Crimson?” she stuttered so buzzing with longing for him, Helen could barely form a thought.
Drat.
“Yes.” His gaze never moved from her. “Maybe on a bed. Would you object?”
Object? The image he’d conjured up had Helen pressing her thighs together at the sudden ache. “I will consider it,” she said softly, thinking of two naked bodies twisted around each other and yards of crimson silk.
Damn him.
“Will you also give some thought to escape? The sort you clearly long for?” There was no mistaking the heat in his eyes. “That maybe I can offer?”
“Escape,” she repeated, feeling the promise of the word on her tongue. He had no idea how much she wished to be gone from London. Free of the life she’d been forced to lead that was never quite her own. “I have…my position to consider.”
“Do you really intend for the rest of your days to be spent following about little twits as you do now?” His features took on a strange cast. “I don’t want you to.”
Helen drew in a breath at that look. “I don’t think it any of your affair, Your Grace, how I choose to spend my days.”
His eyes searched her face, as if he were trying to solve a puzzle. “What if those days were spent with me instead?”
She turned away, wanting to scream at him to go. No matter what she’d promised the duchess, Helen couldn’t—“I have always…been a lady’s companion and chaperone. It is a respectable position, Your Grace. When one is the orphaned,impoverished relation, there are few opportunities and even less choices. I am grateful to Lord Galway for his employment.”
A chuckle erupted from his chest. “No, you bleedin’ are not.”
Well that wasn’t ducal at all.
“You’ve no idea what it is like to be passed around like a potato that has grown too hot in the flames.” Helen bit on her lip. This wasn’t Roxboro. The man before her likely had more than a passing acquaintance with poverty, else why steal from society? “Or have a place in the world.”
“You have a place in the world,” he said quietly. “Why haven’t you married, Miss Cosgrove? You could do so now, in fact.”
“I’m far too old for marriage, Your Grace.” She stumbled over the title because this pretense had already gone on long enough. She had expected this meeting to be brief. Convince him to meet her later. And he’d be gone. Not this slow dissection of Helen’s soul. “Ancient by society’s standards. Nearly four and thirty.”
