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Robyn’s room lay at the end, facing the rear of the house.
She refused to allow herself to speculate on his reaction…or hers if he rejected her.
Chest tight, her heart beating against her ribs like a captured lark in a cage, and her breath coming in shallow rasps, she edged along the carpet, using the wall to guide her in the dim light.
The house breathed with its own quiet life.
A sultry wind drifted through the open windows, stirring the heavy curtains so they whispered against the walls. Each languid gust carried the faintest sigh, a cooling caress against the oppressive heat. From deep within the timbers, the wood answered with muted creaks, as though the beams shifted in their sleep. The floorboards flexed here and there, stretching and settling with a contented sigh.
Halfway there, she almost turned tail and ran back to her bedchamber.
She set her jaw.
You are made of sterner stuff.
If you play the craven now, you shall regret it in the morning.
More than just the morning.
When had she begun to love Robyn so irrevocably?
At what moment had he become essential to her very existence?
Why did his nearness—and the longing for more—command her every thought?
Georgine’s love compelled her forward.
She must know, one way or the other.
Once outside Robyn’s door, she paused, willing her heart to steady to a normal cadence.
What would she say to him?
As she raised her hand to knock, the door swung open.
Robyn stood there wearing a black and gold striped banyan, tied at the waist, but gaping open, as if he’d thrown it on in a hurry or as an afterthought. No slippers covered his feet, peeking from the robe’s hem.
Was he naked beneath his robe?
She swallowed, nervous but excited too.
A lamp burned low in the background, the meager light failing to reach the chamber’s corners.
Over his broad shoulder, Georgine inspected the purely masculine decor.
Buff walls with polished wood trim framed the chamber. Dominating the room rose a mahogany four-poster, hung with heavy bottle-green damask, shot with gold bed curtains, and spread with a matching coverlet.
Cream pillows softened the display, while the same green-and-gold draperies stirred in the open casement windows. A Turkish carpet in bottle green, crimson, black, and gilt anchored the room.
His bedchamber suited him.
Her attention dropped to the light smattering of silky curls upon Robyn’s chest, and she had the most peculiar urge to graze her fingertips through the curly hairs. Her stomach—and lower still—tautened in a foreign, but not unpleasant, fashion.
Instead, she let her hand fall to her side.
Upon seeing her standing at the threshold of his chamber, hair tousled as if he had tossed and turned for hours as she had, his warm brown eyes widened.
“Georgine?”
