“I would like to join you. Very much.”
He caught her gaze. And, for the first time all morning, neither of them looked away.
No. Not indifferentwas definitely not going to be enough for him, especially not now. Not after he’d just experienced the rush that had accompanied her eager acceptance of his invitation.
*
Ally.
For some reason, the word made all the difference in the world.Cassie didn’t know Harbury, so they could not be friends. They’d made love, and yet, as she barely participated, she could not bring herself to call him her lover. Allies, however, was safe.
Allies was a start.
“Allies,” she repeated.
She glanced down at his open palm and then carefully intertwined her fingers with his. He closed his other hand tightly over both of theirs.
She’d taken his hand intending to seal their agreement, but he wasn’t holding hers as one would for a handshake. He was holding hers reverently as if he never wanted to let go.
He must truly desire me.
She both dreaded and yearned for his desire.
A few nights ago, Eliza had tried to tell her what to expect on her wedding night. Cassie hadn’t wanted to listen.
I don’t want to hear about a man’s ugly hands, Eliza.
Ugly? A man’s hands are fascinating, Cassie. Strong. Capable of creating experiences words could never express.
She’d thought Eliza mad. Now, she understood.
Harbury’s hands were sturdy. And, yes, strong. But they could also be, as now, surprisingly gentle. Calluses along his palm pressed into the base of her fingers. Unexpected roughness, especially on a duke’s hands.
Why hadn’t she noticed his roughened skin last night?
Because she’d been bracing against onslaught. Shutting herself off to feeling. She wanted him and that want had made her not only angry, but terrified of giving him all of herself while receiving only crumbs in return.
She’d thought she’d resigned herself to being a convenient wife, but his touch had rekindled a desire for the very thing she’d secretly wanted from the start—the whole of Harbury’s heart.
But no matter how persistent that want, she mustn’t forget herhusband was in love with someone else.
Just like the prior night, he was drawing small circles against her knuckles with his thumb.
Was he conscious of the movement?
How was she supposed to remember to protect herself when his skin’s warmth was making her heart flutter and heat vine up her neck? How was she supposed to hold herself apart when her mind was conjuring images of other things those hands could cause her to feel?
Alarmed by the direction of her thoughts, she withdrew her hand.
“About the books,” she returned to a safer subject. “I’m not even a third of the way through the shelves Even so, I—I may have attempted too much at once. What do you think?”
His gaze fixed on his now-empty hand. He flexed his fingers.
“Harbury?” she prompted.
“Pardon?”
“The library?”
