Had it been that way with her mother and father? She didn’t want to think about them tonight, but she heard herself saying, “My father loved my mother, more than he loved his wife.”
His wineglass was halfway to his mouth when he stilled. “I’m not your father.”
She released a quick burst of laughter. “Thank God for that.”
He studied her intently. “I meant, Evie, that I don’t love. Don’t begin to think that what happens between us is more than it is.”
She nodded. He had emphasized often enough what she would be to him. Still, she found herself hoping for more. “Have you never loved any lady that you’ve ...beenwith?”
Slowly he shook his head. “It is not within me to love.”
Sadness swept through her.What a lonely person you must be.She didn’t say the words aloud. She didn’t want to travel any conversational path that would lead them away from enjoying the night. “You’re right. We shouldn’t talk.”
He studied her for a moment as though he were memorizing every line and curve of her face. She wondered if he would study her as thoroughly during breakfast in the morning, if there would be differences for him to note. How much would she change tonight? Would anything about her remain the same?
“If I were the sort to spout poetry,” he finally said, “I would spout it for you.”
She didn’t know whether to weep at his sincerity or laugh at the words he’d chosen to use. She settled on a soft smile. “Spoutpoetry? You don’t think very highly of poems.”
“I have a difficult time following them. Words don’t always mean what they are supposed to mean. They’re not always in the right order. They circle about.”
“You prefer things straightforward.”
He gave a slow appreciative nod. “I do.”
“I enjoy poetry. Even when I can’t figure out exactly what the poet is saying, I like the way the words flow, especially when read aloud. I believe poetry must be read aloud in order to be truly appreciated.”
“Perhaps if you read it to me I’ll grow to appreciate it.”
She smiled, accepting the challenge. “I suppose we’ll find out, since you’ve already agreed that we’ll begin with a reading.”
She didn’t recall ever seeing a gentle smile on him before. It looked at once out of place, and yet so very natural. Leaning over, he tucked a finger beneath her chin, pressed his thumb to her mouth. “Don’t be nervous.”
“It’s a little hard not to be.” She couldn’t manage to quiet the romantic in her. She wanted more than this. He was going to bed her and she would never be the same again. Her stomach was twisting and turning like the strings of sugared candy that she’d watched being pulled in a confectioner’s window once.
He shoved back his chair, stood, and pulled her to her feet. “We’ll have the reading in the library.”
A reprieve. She hardly knew whether to be grateful or annoyed. She settled for grateful.
Chapter 13
In the library, Rafe stood by the fireplace and drank his best Scotch, one glass after another, while she sat in a nearby chair, her posture perfect.
In the end, she didn’t read him poetry but some story about windswept moors and haunting love. But he wasn’t listening to the words as much as he was the lilt and smoky cadence of her voice. The raspiness of it had intrigued him from the beginning. She could recite the letters of the alphabet and hold him enthralled.
Dangerous, so very dangerous.
He wanted to sweep her up into his arms and carry her upstairs, even knowing the hell that holding her so close would bring. Watching her, he could almost forget his limitations, that there was so much he could not give her, and for the first time in his life, his inadequacies filled him with regret.
He was vain enough to acknowledge that on the surface he was a handsome enough fellow. It was what lay beneath that would turn her away. The dark parts, the secrets, the things he’d done. If she knew of those, even the surface would not be attractive to her. And then she’d wash her hands of him. She wouldn’t send him invitations, dress becomingly, have a lovely dinner prepared, offer boring entertainments such as reading and music.
She would leave him, and he would once again be alone with only his thoughts to keep him company.
Her voice was growing lower, raspier, more seductive. He wanted her with every breath he took. He drained his glass, set it on the mantel.
Before he went truly mad, he walked over to her, reached down, closed the book, and set it on the table beside the chair, beside the glass of untouched Scotch that he’d poured for her earlier. He brought her to her feet, watched as she focused her gaze on the black onyx stickpin in his cravat.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I thought it was your skin or your hair or your eyes. But it’s more than that.” Dear God, how much had he drunk? He couldn’t seem to stop his mouth from opening and uttering words. He cradled her face, tilted it up, because he wanted to gaze into the violet depths of her eyes. “I’ll hurt you, Eve. It’s what I do. I hurt people. I have for so long that I don’t know how not to. I want you with a desperation that”—damn near had him on his knees, but he wasn’t going to tell her that, give her power over him—“consumes me. I don’t want to hurt you.”
