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“I have only just recovered the ability to form sensible thoughts,” he told her. “I can hardly be scheming already.”

That pleased her. She saw it in the small lift of her mouth as she rose. They sat beside one another, close enough that her skirt rested against his leg. Charlotte retained his hand, examining a faint scar near his thumb. “Was that there before?”

“No,” he shook his head. “A broken glass several years ago.”

“How ordinary,” she said softly.

“Would you prefer a duel?” he asked, then chuckled.

“Not at all,” she said. “I prefer that you possess enough sense to avoid one.”

“Then I am fortunate,” he told her. “That I have had little need for dueling.”

She traced the pale line once, then let his hand rest between them. The quiet that followed was comfortable. He had almost forgotten such a thing was possible when he wanted someone this much. Charlotte glanced at the board. “We have not finished.”

“Must we?” he asked.

“We are even,” she said. “Do you not want to see who is the winner?”

“I am willing to leave matters as they stand,” he said softly.

“How unlike you.”

He looked at her. She said it lightly, but truth lay beneath the amusement. He had once pursued every advantage as though happiness depended upon bringing events to a satisfactory conclusion of his own devising. Tonight, he couldn't think of anything he wanted to hurry. “I am enjoying where we are.”

Charlotte’s expression changed slightly. “So am I.”

He touched her cheek again. This time, she turned her face and pressed a kiss into his palm. Its tenderness caught him unprepared. He wanted her beneath his roof again tomorrow. He wanted mornings, arguments over books, her laughter drifting from another room. He wanted to discover all the habits the years had given her. He said none of it. Charlotte lowered his hand. “I should tell you something before this becomes more difficult.”

He waited, his pleasure giving way to concern. “I am not seeking a husband.” The words were measured. She had considered them before coming, perhaps before answering his note.

“I had not intended to propose over the backgammon board,” he said, but something inside his chest ached at her words.

“I know.” Her mouth moved faintly. “But I would rather be plain with you.”

“Then be plain,” he said.

She looked down at their hands. “I like being with you. I like that you can still make me laugh.” Her eyes returned to his. “And I should like considerably more than another kiss.”

His fingers tightened before he could prevent it. “Charlotte.”

“But I cannot offer promises,” she said.

He studied her face. He wanted to understand what lay beneath that careful refusal, though he knew their history well enough to recognize one reason. “What are you offering?”

She took a breath. “A night.” He remained still. “With you,” she added, more softly now. “At my house. No expectations beyond it.”

He wanted to say that expectations were already well beyond his control. Instead, he asked, “Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” Her answer was steady.

Alexander lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. He could accept the night she offered. He could not pretend he wanted less just to make it easier to accept. “I should like that,” he said. “Though I cannot promise I shall not wish to see you afterward.”

“You may wish it.” She watched him for a long moment. “But you may not get what you want.”

He lifted a brow. “May I ask?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “You may ask.”