With a nod, he reached out and trailed his forefinger along her jaw. She should have stepped back and closed the door. Instead, she fell into the depth of his gaze as he tracked the movement of his finger along her flesh. His thumb joined in to hold her chin as he lowered his mouth to hers. Unlike the others, this kiss was tender, sweet, slow like the first buds of spring unfurling. It communicated sorrow, regret, apology... desire, yearning, need.
When he pulled away, he pressed his thumb to her dampened lips. “I’ve found I learn more from my mistakes than I do from my successes.”
Leaving her there, battling not to call him back, he strode into his study at the far end of the hallway and closed the door with a bit more force than he normally did, and she wondered if he was going to spend his time in there murdering someone on foolscap.
Chapter 18
Once more he failed to show at breakfast. Another lie-in supposedly, although she didn’t accept that explanation. More likely he was avoiding her, or the temptation of her.
To her astonishment, none of the ladies had ever been to a gaming hell. They plied her with questions, their eyes dancing with excitement as they gave her their rapt attention while she described the decor, the atmosphere, the customers.
“We should all take a night off and go,” Lily announced, her voice brimming with enthusiasm at the potential for mischief.
It was agreed they would do so during the evening of Boxing Day.
At some point during the morning, he slipped out of the residence without her noticing. In order to “see to some business,” Jewel told her.
Perhaps he needed to meet with merchants who were waiting on cargo or one of his ships had returned from its voyage. She would like to be at the docks to watch one of his ships arrive, stroll along its deck, stand at the helm with him at her side. It was a dangerous thing to imagine him beside her, regardless of what she did or where she went. He was not to be involved in so much of her life. He was not to make it difficult for her to walk away from this residence without looking back, without misgivings.
He didn’t join them for dinner.
Nor was he in the library when she arrived at ten. She poured her own sherry and a glass of scotch for him. But his remained untouched.
Why had he not told her he wouldn’t be available that evening? Where the devil was he? What was he doing?
Perhaps he’d gotten lost in his writing. She certainly never liked to leave a letter unfinished. Maybe he felt the same about a scene or a chapter.
When the clock struck eleven, she went to his study and knocked. No answer. She opened the door. No Benedict.
Some urgent matter must have arisen that required his undivided attention. Surely, he would explain himself on the morrow.
Only he was as noticeably absent, not joining them for any of the meals. Jewel assured her that he’d slept in the residence but had left that morning to attend to some matters.
But that evening, once again, he didn’t join her in the library. She was beginning to suspect he was never going to join her, that he was making himself scarce for a reason, and the reason was her.
The following morning, she was in the library when she heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs and the closing of the door to his study. But he failed to join them for the midday meal. If his behavior of the past couple of days wasn’t avoidance, she didn’t know what was. And she wasn’t having it.
She didn’t bother knocking. She simply opened the door to his study and strode in.
Wearing only shirtsleeves and trousers, he was standing at the window, arms raised, hands braced on either side of the window casing, reminding her of the stance of a prisoner chained to a wall in a dungeon that she’d seen depicted somewhere.
Lowering one arm, he glanced back at her without fullyturning. “I’m not to be disturbed when I’m working unless fire or blood is involved. Which is it?”
Well, he was in a right mood, which suited her just fine because so was she.
“What work are you engaged in? Holding up a wall?”
With a huge sigh, he faced her and flung his hand toward his desk. “I’m trying to write.”
“I would think you’d have more success if you were dipping your pen into the inkwell.”
His eyes darkened with heat. He squeezed them shut, opened them. “You don’t understand the process. What do you want?”
She marched over until she was halfway between him and the door. “The lessons we agreed to, the ones you promised.”
He couldn’t have looked more stunned or irritated if she’d smacked him. “Speaking of lessons, aren’t you supposed to be teaching the ladies at this moment?”
“I’ve given them the afternoon off.”
