She was right. Of course, she was right.
He had judged her, had assumed the worst of her, had constructed a version of her in his mind that was capable of the very cruelty he had just accused her of, and he had done it without evidence, without cause, without the slightest justification beyond his own fear.
“I don’t know,” he replied, the words barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what that says about me. Only that I was wrong. Again. That I have been wrong about you repeatedly, consistently, since we met at the Nightingale.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “My methods of protecting the people I care about are not always… elegant. They are rarely fair. And they have caused you pain, twice now, and for that I am sorrier than I can express.”
Augusta fell silent. She stood before him in her nightdress and her woolen shawl, her hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes holding his with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe.
Hudson had the distinct sensation of standing on a precipice, of having offered everything he had to offer and waiting, with a desperation that embarrassed him, to learn whether it would be enough.
“Don’t do this again,” she said, her voice quiet but steady, each word deliberate. “Don’t assume the worst of me. Don’t decide, without asking, what I am capable of. If you have questions, ask them. If you have concerns, voice them. But do not look at me and see a stranger. Not after…” She stopped and swallowed. “Not after what we’ve shared.”
“I won’t,” Hudson said. “I promise.”
He became aware all at once of how close they were standing. Close enough that he could count her eyelashes when she looked down, close enough that her scent filled his senses, lavender and something uniquely her that he had no name for but would recognize blindfolded in a crowd of a thousand.
“Augusta,” he said, her name a prayer and a surrender.
She looked up at him, and whatever she saw on his face made her breath catch. He saw it happen. Saw the moment her control slipped, saw the warmth flood her expression, saw her hand rise without conscious thought to rest against his chest, above his heart.
He covered her hand with his. Felt the rapid, birdlike pulse at her wrist. Felt the slight trembling of her fingers against his shirt.
“I…” he trailed off. “Tell me that this is too soon, that you need time, that what I did is unforgivable and you need space to?—”
She did not let him finish. Instead, she rose on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his with a hunger that made his knees weak.
For one suspended moment, Hudson remained perfectly still, allowing himself the dangerous pleasure of being kissed by her, of feeling her mouth against his, her body pressed against his chest, her hands finding their way to his shoulders with a certainty that suggested she had been thinking about this far longer than was strictly appropriate for a woman who had mere hours ago been ready to walk out of his life forever.
Then his arms came around her, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other settled on the small of her back, and he kissed her with all the desperation of a man who had been starving.
Then, he slowly pulled away.
“I should go,” he murmured against her lips. “It’s late. You’ve had a difficult day.”
“Stay,” Augusta pleaded. The word emerged barely above a whisper, charged with a want that matched his own. “Just for a while.”
With that, he drew her in for another kiss, slower this time, deeper, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips.
Chapter Twenty-Six
His hands moved to her waist, then slid higher, tracing her ribs through the thin fabric of her nightdress, feeling her shudder beneath his touch.
When his thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts, she let out a soft, broken moan, and her hands clutched at his shoulders with an urgency that mirrored his own.
“Augusta,” he said, his voice rough.
He bent to capture her mouth again, his hand sliding beneath her dress to cup the warm, perfect weight of her breast, and felt her arch into his touch with a hunger that matched his own.
His thumb found her erect nipple and circled it with deliberate attention, coaxing another of those broken sounds from her throat.
He lifted her, earning a gasp of surprise that he swallowed with his kiss, and carried her the three steps to the bed, before lowering her onto the mattress with a care that belied the hunger coursing through him.
She lay beneath him, her hair spread across the pillow, her nightdress rucked up to her thighs where his body pressed against hers, and looked at him with an expression of naked want that made his chest ache.
“I’m going to worship you,” he promised, his voice rough with desire. His hand slid up her thigh, beneath the rumpled fabric of her nightdress, and found the warm, wet evidence of how much she wanted him. “Starting here.”
“Hudson,” she gasped, his name a prayer and a surrender. “Please. I need…”
