“Do not start,” Victor said.
Morgan’s grin widened further. “It is the companion.”
Victor stopped walking abruptly beneath the lantern-lit trees. “If you value your life, you will cease speaking.”
Morgan raised both hands innocently. “Ah. So it truly is serious.”
“It is not serious.”
“You look ready to duel someone… Me, I presume,” Morgan smirked.
Victor resumed walking at a brutal pace. “I am merely irritated.”
“Yes. That is always how men look when they desire someone.”
Victor stopped again, so suddenly Morgan nearly collided into him.
“I donotdesire her. Stop saying that,” Victor said sternly. His face had grown red with irritation.
Morgan studied him for a long moment. “Then why do you sound terrified?”
Victor said nothing. Because he had no answer fit to give. The ride back to Mulford Manor proved unbearable.
Every passing minute only sharpened the restless frustration clawing beneath his skin. Victor sat rigidly inside the carriage while London drifted dark and quiet beyond the windows.
I hate this feeling. Hate the loss of control. Hate that Charlotte occupies my mind so completely.
Most of all, he hated the dangerous lust beginning to grow beneath it all.
By the time the carriage finally rolled to a stop outside Mulford Manor, Victor’s mood had blackened entirely.
He strode inside without a word to the servants and climbed the staircase two steps at a time. His jaw remained clenched as fury and confusion battled violently within him.
This is Charlotte’s fault.
Before she arrived, life had remained simple. Pleasant. Controlled.
Now he was rejecting beautiful women, wandering about in foul moods, and thinking endlessly about one impossible woman who looked at him as though she wished equally to kiss and murder him.
Victor marched directly toward Charlotte’s chamber. He scarcely thought at all. He only knew he needed to see her. Needed to demand why she affected him this way. Needed to remind himself she was merely a troublesome employee and not this consuming presence invading every corner of his thoughts.
But the moment he reached her door, he stopped. Silence greeted him.
Victor stared at the polished wood before him while sudden longing hit him so fiercely it nearly stole his breath.
He imagined her asleep beyond the door. Hair loose over her pillow. Soft lips parted slightly. Warm beneath blankets while the rest of the house slept peacefully around her. Desire surged through him hard and immediate.
Victor closed his eyes briefly in frustration.
Christ.
He leaned one arm against the wall beside her door and lowered his head for one dangerous moment. Every instinct urged him to knock.
Or worse. Instead, he forced himself backward. This had gone far enough. Victor straightened sharply before turning away from her chamber entirely. He walked back to his own room like a condemned man.
Sleep proved impossible. For hours, he lay awake staring at the ceiling while moonlight stretched pale across the room. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Charlotte. Charlotte blushing in the opera box. Charlotte glaring at him over tea. Charlotte, in her nightgown, breathing hard beneath his gaze.
At one particularly miserable point near dawn, Victor actually considered…
