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“Very much.” She gulped a lung-full of air in an attempt to calm her galloping heart. “I met Lady Mandeville. We talked for a long time.” She wrote those employment queries during the day as Edmund would be out caring for his businesses. With no intention of lying to him, she preferred him not to see her doing it.
Edmund stood at the entrance in a shirt, no cravat, breeches and hessians, looking like a pirate with his mussed sleek hair falling on his brow above that blade nose of his. She would give ten years of her life to order the midnightl strands with her fingers and slide them down his bristled square jaw to revel in its roughness. Her honey orbs lowered before they gave away her hunger.
Not knowing what to do with her hands, she went back to writing. It must have looked like a dismissal because she heard the knob click shut.
“I am glad you had a pleasant morning.” The syrupy perdition came again.
Her head jerked to him surprised he had remained in the room. The tall frame leaned on the door, his hands on tapered hips, feet crossed. He ought to give her a respite from the avalanche of manliness he bucketed on her with his presence. “How about you?” she saw herself obliged to say.
Edmund pushed from the wood with that lazy move of a man comfortable in his magnificent body. “Concerned.” He started prowling towards her.
Her lips formed an ‘oh’ with which his jet focus impacted. The sensitive skin tingled. “Problems with your business?”
Powerful legs halted two feet from her, hips propping on the desk. “Not exactly.”
Her gaze clawed up from his taut chest to the open top button on the white fabric. Her mind blurred, so she just sat there waiting.
“Are you all right?” It came hoarse, his scrutiny fixed on her.
The question surprised her. Of all the things she imagined him doing, asking about her welfare was never one of them. “I believe I am.” And Otilia stood up to be able to meet his eyes on a more level way through her head tilted back.
“I did not appal you.”
Her delicate brows pleated. What in this world could have appalled her other than her own unrestricted response to him? “In what sense?” With her now standing, they were too near to each other. Her skin revelled in the heat coming from him.
The memory of their moment on the landing assailed her like a tidal wave. He stood so close that she saw each bristle on his jaw, and she inhaled his now familiar scent. It made her wish to repeat the episode over and over. Her hand itched to reach up and brush down that unbuttoned sliver of skin, the feel of it burning in her recollection. She longed to undo the remaining buttons and spread her palm along the expanse of taut muscle peppered with hair she glimpsed on the top of his chest. Her lips would follow because this need to smell him, taste him, tickle her skin with the hair there assailed her undiluted.
“With my…attentions.” His jaw ticked, quick and incessant.
If anything, his attention had been welcome—incontrovertible as the admission was. She could have stopped him. Could have pretended he disgusted her, could have faked disdain. But no. He affected her with such intensity; she had stood no chance—or will—to resist.
Dazed, she shook her head. “N-no,” she blurted. Only those attentions had been…cut short. Too short. “Not at all,” she added.
Perhaps she proved to be more like her mother than she ever contemplated. According to her aunt, Myrtle had been an effusive woman full of life and fond of its joys. But apart from for this man here, Otilia felt nothing remotely physical for anyone, including those vulgar lords who propositioned her.
“Good,” he rumbled.
They stood there in that silence full of unspoken words for so long she lost track of time. His perusal took her in, from the simple chignon coiling her brown-sugar hair, her wide gaze on him, down to her plump lips and demure neckline. It warmed every inch where they rested.
“If you need something, you only have to let me know,” he said, his solid frame unmoving.
What she needed, she would not have. Should not. “I will.” The answer came out as a whisper.
His large hand lifted slowly to reach a loose, glossy strand of her hair which had f
allen while she wrote. Her breath hitched with the slightest of tugs on it when his fingers held the lock. Their stares clasped as he rolled it around his elegant finger.
More seconds elapsed without either moving. Like a spell, they stayed by the desk. Not a muscle stirred.
That he came to the library to ask about her had to be one of the surprises of this day. Edmund gave the impression of not caring one way or the other. He had been very fond of her uncle and showed concern for him. After she declared herself to him, he did not return to the manor. But she learned they met when Earnest came to town. So, there must be cracks of emotion in him. None of it directed at her though. Until that moment, all he expressed was contempt and suspicion about her actions.
She did not imagine how to deal with this strangely thoughtful man two feet from her. She could not even decide if she liked him. If he treated her with consideration, she might discover she did. And it would be dangerous, too dangerous. It might lead to other not so negative sentiments. The luxury of feeling anything for any man was inexistent. Harbouring any emotion for the Earl was out of the question. Fortunately, the man himself shattered those old girlie illusions. The shock of reality served her well, making her grow up and see the world in its cold, cruel colours. This is how it should continue.
In a struggle to break that mesmerising trance, she gave a step back, and he loosened the hair around his finger. His arm lowered sedately while they still held their gazes locked.
Her hands joined in front of her, composed. “Thank you,” she managed to utter, polite and distant.
For an infinite row of seconds, he did not twitch a single long, sooty lash. At last, with a curt nod, he turned and left the library.
