Page 37 of A Match Made On Duchess Square

“It isn’t. But you are a man who resists change, and I have somehow become a part of your familiar routine. I think you are also swayed by your sons and the obvious affection they have for me.”

“And what do you think of them?”

He was turning this around on her, but she wanted to give him an honest answer before pressing on with her opinion about their situation. “I adore them. They are delightful boys and you ought to be so proud of them. They try their best to behave, but their curiosity and adventurous natures sometimes get the best of them.” She cleared her throat and continued. “However, my liking them is not relevant to this conversation.”

He absently twirled the stem of his wine glass. “Are we having a conversation? Or are you about to lecture me on my matchmaking failures?”

“They aren’t failures,” she insisted, now blushing because she had hoped not to come across as a strict and humorless schoolmistress. “Well, some obviously were. But these next ladies do hold promise. You must not compare them to me.”

“Is this what you think I have been doing?”

“Yes, and this is why they are bound to fall short. How can they ever live up to me when you have mistakenly placed me on a pedestal?”

He took another sip of his wine, then once again began to lightly run his fingers along the stem of his glass when he set it down.

She tried not to stare at the sensual glide of his fingers along the elegant glass, but could not help herself. How would it feel if he ran his fingers along her spine?

She moaned softly and drank a little more of her Madeira.

“I can assure you, I am fully aware of your shortcomings, Gwen.”

“You are?” Her blush deepened, for she was now tingling because his fingers would feel magnificent against her skin.

Oh, this was wrong. So wrong.

She finished her second glass of port, set it down on the table with a light thunk, and then reached for the bottle and refilled her glass.

How had it emptied so fast?

“Um…what are my shortcomings?” she asked, leaning an elbow on the table to hold herself steady when the room suddenly tipped forward.

“You have very few,” he assured her, his gaze turning hot and assessing as his gentlemanly veneer slipped away just enough for her to feel a heightened awareness between them.

Awareness and heat.

Perhaps this was what had her gulping down her third glass of port. He was looking at her with an insatiable thirst.

Or was she the thirsty one?

What was happening to her? She refused to consider she was feeling a womanly desire for Milbury.

“We both have a tendency to hold on to the past and resist change,” he said, unaware of the torment coursing through her.

Or was he aware?

He leaned forward, making her heart beat faster. “Gwen, look at how a simple trip to Milbury Hill has unsettled you.”

She tipped her chin up. “I am not unsettled.”

“Seriously? I have never seen you take anything other than tea after supper. Here you are, working on your third glass of port.”

“Oh. Has it been three?” To her frustration, she could not accuse him of being wrong about this.

Leaving her past behind was proving quite difficult for her, just as he had accused. It seemed no one was more stuck in the past than she was.

“You love making lists,” he continued with a tender smile. “You are constantly making them, but I find that quite endearing.”

“You do?”