“And yet here you stand.” His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before lifting again. “Again. It's my favorite phrase, as you said so yourself.”
Charlotte immediately looked away, cursing herself for noticing the movement. Ever since the opera, she had become painfullyaware of him at all times. His voice lingered in her thoughts, his touch haunted her skin, and worst of all was the fact that she now understood precisely how dangerous his charm could be.
Victor resumed walking, and she followed despite herself. “You grow too attached to my grandmother’s wishes,” he said.
“She deserves joy,” she said.
“Yes, and she deserves dignity,” he said.
“Can she not have both?” Charlotte said.
He glanced at her sharply. “You speak as though you know better than I do.”
Charlotte lifted her chin. “Perhaps I do in this matter.”
Victor huffed a laugh under his breath. “God help me, you truly fear nothing.”
“Oh, I fear many things,” she muttered.
His eyes flickered toward her. “Do you?”
Charlotte instantly regretted saying it aloud. She feared him most of all lately. Not because he was cruel, for he was not truly cruel beneath all his arrogance, but because she no longer trusted herself around him. Every glance from him seemed toloosen something inside her that she had spent years carefully controlling.
Victor slowed beside a rose arbor. “And what is it you fear, Charlotte?”
The sound of her Christian name upon his lips sent a ridiculous shiver down her spine.
“At present?” she replied lightly. “That your grandmother shall never forgive you if she misses the opening ball.”
“She shall survive the disappointment,” he said.
“She shall pout and be upset,” Charlotte said.
“She is seventy-six years old, not a child,” Victor said.
“So… she shall pout elegantly,” Charlotte replied with annoyance.
Victor barked out a genuine laugh, then, warm and sudden. Charlotte stared at him before she could stop herself.
Good heavens. The man becomes devastating when he smiles properly.
His amusement faded slowly as he caught her looking. “There it is again.”
“What?” she asked too quickly.
“That look.” He stepped closer. “You stare at me as though you cannot decide whether to slap me or kiss me.”
Charlotte’s breath caught. “You think very highly of yourself.”
“No,” he murmured. “I simply think of the way you look at me.”
The garden suddenly felt too warm. The scent of roses hung thick in the air, and Charlotte became acutely aware of how close he stood. If she leaned forward even slightly, she could touch him. That realization alone nearly undid her.
“You are trying to distract me,” she accused softly.
Victor took another slow step toward her. “Is it working?”
“No.”
