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She half-wished he’d glance up and see her and half-hoped he wouldn’t. An urge to turn around and flee so overwhelmed her, she felt almost faint. Or perchance hunger made her light-headed. More likely, trepidation did.

After sweeping a glance around the room, she returned the smiles of a pair of twinkling-eyed, apple-cheeked matrons nattering in one corner. A precocious towheaded boy, sitting on his knees and dragging a spotted toy horse along the back of his chair while making neighing noises, grinned at her, revealing a missing front tooth.

A pair of gentlemen—bankers perhaps given their somber black suits—paused in their animated discussion to turn and boldly inspect her, their appreciative smiles and slightly inappropriate gazes, making her uneasy. Edging her chin upward, she focused on James—the man she’d once loved with all of her heart.

How could a gentleman turned out entirely in black, save his starched shirt and confection of a cravat, be so hopelessly attractive? So sculpted? Splendid? Virile?

Heat suffused her. Good God. What had prompted that particular thought?

He’d stretched his strapping legs beneath the table and crossed his ankles. Though the chair was of average size, his tall, powerfully built frame and preposterously broad shoulders dwarfed the sturdy piece of furniture.

Like a woman long-starved, Regine permitted her gaze to feast upon him and his sheer male essence. Memories flooded her: his breath whispering across her cheek; his strong fingers threaded through her hair; his solid body pressed to hers as he showered kisses upon her face and mouth.

Oh, James.

Of a sudden, Regine became aware she stared at him like a calf-eyed ninny. Her cheeks flamed hot—probably as ruddy as her shockingly bright mantle. Nothing like gawking in the manner of a gauche schoolgirl instead of a mature, widowed duchess. A world-traveler, woman of independent means, and guardian to a fifteen-year-old girl.

Regine refused to peek from beneath her lashes and determine if any of the patrons had noticed her uncouthness. Better not to know. Ignorance being bliss and all that.

In a few short heartbeats and an equal number of surprisingly steady steps, she stood indecisively beside his table. Her stomach wobbled with a whorl of emotion, and her pulse quickened, the blood sluicing through her veins at an alarming speed.

Approaching him was a mistake. She should turn and leave. Now. That would be the wise thing to do. Yes, but she was well and done with doing what was wise and expected. Hence her unfashionably loud attire.

Unfashionable for England, perhaps, but quite acceptable in the foreign places she’d stayed. She’d always preferred bright colors, and as a widow, she felt no compulsion to conform to Society’s expectations.

Absorbed in his newssheet, James Brentwood didn’t glance up but shook his head while lifting a lean, staying finger.

Remorse buffeting her, Regine permitted her gaze to brush every dear angle and plane of his face. How many times had she run her fingertips over his angular jaw? Kissed his slightly too-strong chin?

“No more of your delicious coffee for me, Mrs. Delaney,” he murmured, distractedly. “Sleep will elude me until the wee hours if I indulge.”

She closed her eyes for a long blink.

Lord. His voice.

The mellow timbre had haunted her dreams for years. Her daytime reveries, as well.

Sometimes, when she was in a half-awake, half-asleep fog, she’d believe James spoke her name. She’d come fully awake, calling his name, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. And when she realized it had only been a dream, overcome with fulminating regret, she’d bury her face in the lavender-scented, satin-covered pillow and let sorrow have its way.

Dragging in a ragged breath and with her stomach flopping as frantically as a beached trout, she laced her fingers together. And squeezed. Tightly. Outwardly, she appeared serenely composed and unaffected, but inside she was a tumultuous, careening wreck. An apt description of her life for almost a decade now.

“I’m not Mrs. Delaney, James,” Regine managed, through a throat too taut for speech and cursing to herself for the revealing, tremulous tenor. Consternation scuffed against gladness as she awaited his reaction.

He went rigid, his jaw, neck, and shoulders noticeably tensing beneath her scrutiny. Not a doubt remained that he hadn’t recognized her voice.

Gradually, as if bracing himself for an assault or battle, he brought those startling aquamarine orbs fringed with sooty lashes to meet her gaze. He’d always had the most memorable turquoise eyes. Eyes a woman yearned to dive into and explore their mesmerizing, enigmatic depths and mine the treasures within.

And now that she’d seen glistening tropical oceans, she knew exactly what shade his eyes were—the sea surrounding the Isle of Crete just after dawn. And every time she’d looked upon that glittering water, she’d thought of him. Wished it was him at her side. Him watching her from across the breakfast table or with her as she exclaimed over another marvel of man or nature. Always and forever, James.

For an instant, unrestrained joy shone in his unflinching gaze. Then, his blistering eyes pierced her with withering scorn before a bland expression masked the emotion with the alacrity and might of a lightning bolt strike. Shutting her out as effectively as if he’d slammed and secured shutters or battened down the hatches of a ship.

Were his teeth clenched? Aye, indeed. A muscle definitely ticked in his jaw.

Regine dropped her focus to the hand resting on his thigh. Balled tight. Her treacherous attention shifted ever-so-slightly to the lump his fitted pantaloons couldn’t hide. Latent desire took root in her belly.

He’d always affected her thus. Whereas once she’d gloried in her attraction to him, now it was a burden.

“Your Grace.” Harsh. Cold. Unwelcoming.