“Lily,” Philip whispered, and she snapped her attention back to him. His eyes were dark, questioning as they held hers.
She should tell him what she needed, how he’d broken everything between them and could never fix it. How she missed himevery day and worried about him even more. She should be brave, the strong woman she always claimed to be.
Instead, she ran from the room as fast as her legs could carry her.
Chapter 4
PhilipfoundLilyexactlywhere he’d expected.
In the stables, shoveling manure in dinner dress.
Hidden in the shadows of the stable, he allowed himself a moment to watch her in the lantern light. Dust motes floated in the air, as if the snowflakes had followed her inside, equally entranced by her. The humble stable transformed into a golden fairyland with his wife as its queen. The pungent scent of horses and manure was somehow diminished here, as his nostrils filled with fresh hay, leather, and the soft orange and cinnamon perfume he remembered from so long ago.
She’d shed her jacket and worked in the dark aubergine skirt she’d worn to dinner, with only her corset and stays above. His walk through the gentle snow had done nothing to abate the desire that swirled in his blood the moment her lips touched his beneath the mistletoe. His cock kicked at the sight of her now, how perspiration stuck the thin fabric to the swells of her breasts and made her pale skin glow. The muscles of her arms flexed and shifted asshe took a pitchfork to the straw and tossed the waste into the wheelbarrow at the stall’s entrance.
Yes, mucking shite should not have aroused him, but her strength was stirring his desire, her damnable tenacity that had kept him alive all those years ago and had given him the determination to find his way back to her.
That, and the fact that he hadn’t been intimate with anyone since their wedding night.
He cleared his throat. “You’ll ruin your skirt if you keep that up.”
She stilled, her jaw tensing before she stabbed another section of damp straw and flung it towards the wheelbarrow. The majority missed and spilled out the far side, into the aisleway.
Hiding his smile, he unbuttoned his greatcoat and jacket and tossed them over the stall divider. “I’ve made the night difficult for you.” He rolled his shirtsleeves up to the elbows and walked towards her, extending his hand.
Given there was a decent chance she’d send the pitchfork through his genitals, he thought himself quite valiant.
Her lips curled in a snarl before she shoved the pitchfork at him, then turned to leave the stable.
“I hoped we could talk now,” he said, holding out a hand to still her but not touching her. He wasn’t certain how he’d survived the kiss beneath the mistletoe, only that he wanted to kiss her again, and soon.
But not yet. He hadn’t earned her affection, but perhaps this would be the start.
She paused and spoke without looking at him, her words delivered through clenched teeth. “I have nothing to say to you.”
A mirthless chuckle escaped him. “I highly doubt that’s true. I’m willing to bet you have quite a lot to say—yell, actually—at me.”
“If I yelled as much as I’d like, I’d wake all of Oxfordshire.”
A nostalgic fondness settled in his chest, warming him. They’d always sparred like this; Lily Waverly had never held back from putting him in his place, and he’d loved her all the more for it. When he’d courted her years ago, neither had shied away from allowing their bickering to evolve to kissing, touching, her clever tongue firing as he did his best to convince her to stay with him, to take his name and be his countess.
And she’d agreed. Then he’d left.
He motioned towards a stool in the stall’s corner, and the breath escaped his lungs in a rush when she sat without argument. “Is this one yours?” He nodded his chin at the large chestnut bay in the next stall.
“She is. Calpurnia.” Lily’s voice was laced with reluctant pride, as though he deserved none of her happiness. “Cavalier is her sire.”
“Cavalier?” He chuckled as he separated more soiled hay and dropped it in the wheelbarrow. “I thought that beast would never take to stud.”
“He’s done well for us. Two of his foals were winners at Haymarket last season.” She hesitated, as though tempering her excitement. “The stables have been a good source of income for the estate.”
“You should be proud of what you’ve done.”
“I am.” She sniffed. “I enjoy the work.”
Several moments passed where the only sounds were the chuffing of horses in their stalls, the pitchfork slicing through the hay, and the pounding in his ears. The falling snow outside muffled any noise from the house, like the stable had been closed inside a glass ornament, a world that was entirely theirs. He was loath to break the temporary peace, but it had to be shattered.
“You deserve to know why I left,” he said finally.
