Page 69 of Regency in Color

He reached over her shoulder to pluck one of the flowers from the vine, before gently gripping her shoulder to turn her back to him. Miss Ramsey’s eyes were wide and fathomless, like still waters in the dark of night. She gazed up at him with parted lips, her bodice straining with each labored breath she took.

He could hardly breathe himself, and felt as if he’d stepped outside his body. He wasn’t the Duke of Westerfield just now, but simply Stephen—a man with longings and needs that he hadn’t realized went unfulfilled.

She drew in a sharp breath when he tucked the flower into her coiffure so that it rested over one ear, just above where her hanging spiral curl fell. The thick, smoothed coils of her hair brushed his knuckles, and he wondered if her skin would feel as soft as those curls.

He couldn’t resist. Stephen smoothed his knuckles over her cheek, his fingers tingling at the revelation that her skin was like satin. He rested his palm at her jaw, unwilling to part from her just yet. It stunned him how right it felt to touch her in such a benign way. It might have been an innocent interaction, but Stephen’s blood was on fire and rushing away from his brain. The primal parts of him were coming alive now, begging for more.

“Your Grace,” she whispered, a desperate plea in her voice.

“Stephen,” he corrected with a smile. “I think it’s time you called me by my Christian name.”

Her eyes flared wide and she shook her head. “I cannot. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you just reminded me that formalities need not exist between us. We are friends of a sort now, I think. We are certainly more than acquaintances.”

And yet, a friend was the least of what he wanted to be to this woman. His head spun as he wrestled with what he felt and what it meant. He hardly knew her, but Stephen had learned enough. He had learned that Miss Ramsey was the sort of woman he felt an unusual comfort around. She was someone he didn’t have to put on airs with. Someone who could come to know the real him—the man buried beneath the necessary facade of a duke.

“You were wrong about one thing, though,” he added. “There is certainly a need to be courtly toward you, Miss Ramsey. You may not have the title of ‘lady’, but you are one in every sense of the word.”

Miss Ramsey met his gaze again, a bit of the unease in her eyes melting away. “You mustn’t toy with me, Your Grace. I am as prone to romantic whimsy as any other woman. I have needs and desires, but with a man like you I cannot allow them to override my better judgment.”

“Stephen,” he insisted, strumming his thumb along the edge of her lower lip. “And I would never toy with you.”

“No, but you could far too easily break my heart,” she murmured. “Then where will you buy your books?”

He chuckled, so thoroughly charmed by her that he couldn’t seem to wipe the smile from his face. “It is not my intention to break your heart.”

“I believe you, but I foresee it happening all the same. There could never be more than this night between us. Do you understand that?”

Stephen’s heart seemed to have stopped. He couldn’t feel his legs. What he did feel was a powerful, all-consuming surge of desire. It raced through him, filling every corner of his being until he was desperate to have her against him, her mouth fitting to his.

“Surely that isn’t true,” he said.

To his surprise, she lifted one hand and laid it on his chest. Through the heavy layers of the fabric covering him, he felt each fingerprint.

“It is,” she argued. “I know I shouldn’t allow myself to be content with that much, yet I find myself wanting it all the same.”

Was she saying what Stephen thought she was saying? There was no reticence in her gaze now; only sheer determination and resolve. He teetered on the line between decency and the urge to give in to what he truly wanted for the first time in his life. Since he’d been old enough to understand what was expected of him, Stephen had pushed all selfish urgings aside. He had thrown himself into his duty, never wanting to let his mother or father down. He lived his life with as much honor and dignity as he could, and though he was not perfect, it wasn’t often that he gave himself over to the selfishness of seizing the moment.

There had been a handful of women over the years—widows and actresses and the like. His affairs with them had been short-lived and free of scandal or complication. Each of them had been treated well, and had entered into such arrangements with an understanding of who he was and what their connection would entail.

This was something entirely different. It was mad and perhaps a bit foolish, but Stephen had never wanted anything more in his life.

“I know how you feel,” he rasped, feeling as if a stone had lodged itself in his throat. “I shouldn’t allow you offer me even that much, but I cannot deny what I want … and what I want is you.”

Miss Ramsey closed her eyes, her free hand resting over the one he held against her cheek. “Then we are agreed. One night only.”

Stephen wanted to insist that they could have more. Perhaps from her perspective that seemed impossible, but Stephen was accustomed to the privilege that allowed him to do whatever he wished. However, somewhere deep inside he knew that if he pressed her, Miss Ramsey would flee. The last thing he wanted was to watch her walk away. Perhaps if he agreed now, he could convince her later that he was willing and able to give her far more than the limits she had imposed.

Stephen lowered his head until his brow rested against hers. He closed his eyes and took in her scent—clean and simple, intertwined with the softest hint of orange blossoms.

“I agree,” he said, tilting her head back so that her mouth was offered to him at the perfect angle. “One night only. But first … you must stop calling me ‘Your Grace.’ If we are to have one night, then you will have it with Stephen … not the Duke of Westerfield.”

Her eyelids were lowered and heavy, her mouth a tempting pucker, his for the taking. “Very well.”

Stroking the seam of her lips with his thumb, he smirked. “I’m waiting, Miss Ramsey. And while you’re at it, perhaps you might give me the honor of your given name. I can hardly go on calling you Miss Ramsey for the rest of the evening.”

She grinned. “Thalia … my name is Thalia.”

The perfect name for her. It rang like a heartbeat, steady and beautiful and life-affirming.

“Thalia,” he repeated. “It suits you. Now, it’s your turn. Say my name.”

Her breath hitched as she swayed into him both hands now seeking support against his chest. “Stephen,” she breathed, with a small sound of surrender from the back of her throat.

Stephen lost what was left of his control at that single utterance of his name. Wrapping one arm around Thalia, he drew her tight against him and took her mouth in a desperate, ravaging kiss.