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Alexander had been invited to dinner. He was attempting not to mistake that invitation for everything else he wanted. Charlotte made it difficult. She sat beside him at the small table. Candlelight glided over her hair, brightening her green eyes. She explained why the hero of her novel didn’t deserve its heroine. She gestured with her fork as she spoke. A curl came loose at her temple, swinging against her cheek with each emphatic nod. Every now and then, her knee brushed his beneath the table. It was a warm, light pressure through the silk. The first time might have been accidental. By the third, he had begun to doubt it. His pulse hammered in a way that had nothing to do with the claret.

“She has told him precisely what she wants,” Charlotte said, setting down her wine. “Yet he continues to pursue some entirely different notion of her happiness.”

“An unfortunate decision on his part,” Alexander replied. The tips of his ears warmed. Because he knew exactly whom she meant, and exactly how recently he had been guilty of it.

Her mouth curved. “Have you an opinion upon it?”

“I am attempting to acquire better ones,” he said.

She laughed, and he felt the same quiet pleasure he had enjoyed all afternoon in her library. Among the shelves and the drifting dust motes they had worked amiably. She had asked him to stay because she wanted his company. He could hardly remember anything that had made him happier. Except, perhaps, waking beside her.

He wanted to do that again. He wanted evenings like this one, with her hand near his upon the table, her bare fingers resting beside the stem of her glass. With no need to count the minutes before he must leave. The wanting was deep and settled, like a hand pressed warm against his chest. But she had only offered him dinner. He would enjoy it without deciding what she ought to offer next, and he took a slow sip of wine to remind himself.

“You are smiling,” she observed, tilting her head.

“Am I?” he asked. Perhaps he was. He could not recall a time he had been happier.

“I believe it must be something you have neglected to share with me.” She held his gaze. “Tell me what it is.”

He covered her hand with his. A warm feeling filled him. The faint pulse at her wrist. “I like being here.”

Her teasing expression softened, and her fingers turned beneath his, lacing through them. “I like having you here.”

For a moment, they simply looked at one another, the candle flame trembling between them. Then a servant approached to remove their plates, and Charlotte glanced down. She left her hand beneath his as a faint flush rose in her cheeks. Once they were alone again, with the door closed and the fire murmuring in the grate. Alexander turned toward her. “What would you like to do?”

She raised a brow. “You have no suggestions?”

“Several,” he told her. “I am trying to behave.”

“How disappointing,” she said, and her voice dropped, low and warm. “Especially as I mentioned that I enjoy your wickedness.”

He laughed, a short, helpless sound. Charlotte rose, her hand sliding into his, and she brought him to his feet.

“Come back to the library,” Charlotte said. She rose from the table and laid her napkin beside her plate. The candlelight slid along the curve of her cheek as she turned. A small, private smile played about her mouth. “You owe me a kiss.”

“I thought I had paid that debt,” Alexander said, rising with her, though his pulse had already quickened.

“You may have misunderstood the terms.” Her green eyes glinted.

“I should be pleased to hear them explained,” he said, and his voice came out lower than he had intended.

She took his arm, her fingers curling into his sleeve. “I believe a demonstration would be more helpful.”

He followed her willingly down the quiet corridor. The library was warm, its lamps lighting the books they had left upon the table, the open map and the stack of letters weighted by a paperweight. Charlotte stopped beside the sofa and turned toward him. Before he could speak, she put her hands on his shoulders and lifted her face, eyes half-closed, lips slightly parted.

Alexander kissed her. All afternoon, he had wanted to draw her close. He had watched her smile over a book, smooth the creases from her map with the flat of her palm, and make room for his opinions among her own. Now she came readily into his arms, her body soft and warm against his, and he held her with a relief he could no longer pretend was merely desire. He spread his hands across her back, feeling her breath rise and fall. He kissed her as though he had waited years to do so, which he had.

When she drew back, her fingers remained at his neck, brushing the sensitive skin above his collar. “That is better,” she murmured.

“Was dinner so trying?” he asked

She smiled. “Only toward the end.”

“I found myself unusually interested in dessert,” he said in a low voice.

Her eyes warmed. “Did you?”

“I was attempting not to stare at you,” he told her.