“Dodie.” He gave her a look, to which she bit the edge of her lip, nodded, and rushed away to do his bidding.
Felton entered the drawing room with a curious rhythm thumping his chest. Nearly an hour. That’s how long Dodie said Eliza had been here, curled on the scroll-end sofa, both hands under her cheek. No wonder the maid could not disturb her.
He couldn’t either.
Like an addled fool, he lowered to the floor, arms on his knees, and watched her. Twilight spilled in from the windows, blue and strange, while flickers of a nearby wall sconce danced on her cheeks.
Her cheeks. Flushed and warm and sun touched. Her lashes, dark and wet, as if she’d fallen asleep with tears. Her lips, barely parted, moist, pink, kissable, lovely.
He swallowed and shook his head. He shouldn’t be here. He should have told Dodie to nudge Eliza awake, help her back to her chamber, and see her safely in bed for the night. Why had Eliza fallen asleep here anyway? Had she been waiting for him?
He would have been home in time for dinner had Mr. Haverfield not accosted him. After that, his blood had been boiling too fast for the proper etiquette of dinnertime, the stifling confines of his house, and another anguishing visit to his mother’s chamber.
He’d gone to the cove instead. He rode and rode hard, letting the cool evening wind tug away his tension, letting the salty air reach deep in his lungs and soul. He forgot about Hugh. He forgot about Mamma. He forgot about Eliza’s beast and Lord Gillingham’s guilt and the name he couldn’t make proud no matter how much he tried.
Help me, my God,had been his prayer.Help everything.
With a soft noise, Eliza stirred, then squinted open her eyes. She blinked, jerked upright. “Where am I?”
“The drawing room.”
She swung her legs off the sofa, the pink of her cheeks burning to red as she patted at her disheveled hair. “I don’t know how I…I mean, I was just sitting here and …” Her sleep-softened eyes lifted to something above the mantel.
He followed her gaze. The painting. “Sitting here and looking at me, were you?”
“Yes. I dreamed of you too.”
“Another nightmare?”
The question had been posed in jest, but she rubbed her arms without answer and said instead, “You did not come to dinner.”
“No.”
“I wish you never left. The house is strange when you are gone.”
“There is nothing here that will hurt you.”
She looked away, shivering a second time.
“You are cold. Come.” He stood, put her hand on his arm, and led her back through the house in darkness. “The stairs. Watch your step.”
They ascended in silence. Near the top, she must have missed a step because she stumbled forward, and he caught her.
Then he flattened against the wall, and his hands threaded into her hair on impulse. He pulled her closer and held her tighter. As if to hide her. As if to protect her. As if to keep anyone from ever tearing her away from him. What was he doing?
This was madness, but next thing he knew, he was kissing her again. Longing opened up inside him. Precious longing. Longing to hold her like this forever and longing to always be the one who claimed her lips and longing to keep her safe and happy and …
“Felton.” A murmur against his lips. “Felton, let me go.”
The desperation in her voice kicked him. He dropped his arms. “What is wrong?”
She started away from him, but he caught her arm.
“Eliza, please.”
“No, Felton. Let me go—”
“Eliza.” Framing her face, he stared down into features only faintly distinguishable in the darkness. “Tell me what troubles you.”
