He released her wrist, stepping back.
She stood there, breathing hard, glaring up at him with those impossibly green eyes. He watched disappointment flicker across her features as the distance between them remained.
“You are disappointed, Cressida. Why?” The question escaped before he could stop it.
Color flooded her cheeks, and the sight of it spreading made his heart kick. “I—I…”
“Is there something you want?” he asked, his voice low now. “From me.”
She did not answer. That in itself was an answer.
Theodore felt something tighten low in his belly.
Cressida looked as though she had words prepared and had lost them somewhere between thought and speech.
He took a step closer. Watched her. She didn’t stop him.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
Her breath caught.
“Do you want me to stop, Cressida?” He came closer still, her lavender scent enveloping him.
She only shook her head.
Theodore took another step forward, watching her pupils dilate, her lips part. “So be it.”
Then he was kissing her, his mouth claiming hers with all the pent-up frustration and desire that had been building since he’d first dragged her from that church. She made a sound against his lips, surprise or pleasure or both, before her arms came up around his neck.
This was madness. Complete and utter madness. But Theodore couldn’t bring himself to care, not when she tasted like wineand defiance, not when her body pressed against his with unmistakable need.
His hands found her waist, pulling her closer until no space remained between them. The tight dress meant he could feel every curve, every rapid breath. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to sting, and the small pain only heightened his hunger.
He backed her against the wall, his mouth leaving hers to trace the line of her jaw, the column of her throat. She arched into him, her head falling back to grant better access, and he bit down gently on the spot where her neck met her shoulder.
“Your Grace,” she gasped.
“Theodore. Say my name,” he growled.
“Theodore,” she gasped again, and the sound of his name on her lips nearly undid him.
His hand slid up her ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through too-thin fabric. She trembled against him, making sounds that would haunt his dreams for weeks.
Thunder cracked overhead with such violence that the windows rattled in their frames.
The sound penetrated the haze of lust. Cressida stiffened in his arms, and he felt the moment reality crashed back for both ofthem. She pushed at his chest, and this time he let her go, stepping back quickly enough that she nearly stumbled.
But she didn’t say anything. Instead, she gathered her skirts and fled, leaving him alone in the dining hall with her taste still on his lips and the echo of thunder mocking his loss of control.
He pressed his palms against the wall where she’d been, trying to slow his breathing, trying to remember all the reasons this was impossible.
It didn’t help.
The next morning dawned clear, sunlight streaming through the breakfast room windows with almost offensive brightness. Theodore sat alone with cold coffee and the London papers, trying not to think about how empty the castle felt without her there, arguing with him.
He heard her footsteps before she appeared. When had he learned the rhythm of her walk?
She was wearing a traveling dress that Mrs. Agnes must have procured from somewhere, and her expression was carefully neutral.
