“Clarice,” he said, and this time, a hint of warmth colored the word.
“Roman,” she whispered, “you came.”
He took a few steps farther into the room, looking around suspiciously. “I thought that I’d been invited to dinner. I thought I was coming to some sort of party.”
She wondered if he was disappointed. Was that why he came? Was he still just looking for the next party?
“There will be dinner,” she assured him. “But it will be just the two of us.”
“What is this?” he asked, still looking as though he expected to be ambushed. “Why did you ask me here?”
“Why did you come to my husband’s funeral?” she replied, not quite ready to put all her cards on the table.
A soft laugh escaped him, and he crossed the distance between them, taking a seat in the chair beside her. Some of his tension seemed to dissipate as he met her gaze. “Truthfully? I don’t know. I suppose I just wanted to see if you were all right.”
Warmth filled her at his admission. He did still care, at least on some level. The knowledge gave her courage.
“Today marks eighteen months since my husband’s death,” she murmured, twisting the jet beads at her throat. “I’ve missed so much, but I thought that I needed to honor his memory by observing the full period of mourning. But whenever my mind drifted to thoughts of who I most wanted to see the moment it was acceptable, it was always you. I’ve missed you so much, Roman.”
Holding her gaze, he crossed his ankles and leaned back in his chair, the picture of a gentleman. But she knew the scoundrel that simmered below the surface. She’d gambled, drank, and raced with him. She’d kissed him for hours on a blanket under a tree and listened while he told her his dreams. She’d known him on a deeper level than she’d ever known anyone, but she didn’t know him now, and she had no idea what he was thinking.
“These aren’t the rules of half-mourning,” he said at last, his gaze drifting over her lavender gown. “When a widow reenters society, she is not meant to entertain gentlemen alone.” His voice was still serious and remote, but a hint of laughter danced in his eyes now, and she relaxed incrementally.
She waved a hand at the elegant maroon and cream room around them. “And that is why I’m receiving you here. This home belongs to the Wicked Widows’ League. It is at our disposal for any purpose we wish. No one will ever know we met alone unless you tell them.”
Her last comment hung in the air, and her heartbeat once again rang in her ears. She’d taken a huge risk by inviting him here, and they both knew it. If he still wanted to hurt her, he could easily bring about her social demise.
“Wicked Widows’ League? I’m certain there’s a story there.” He gave a huff of laughter. “Well, I can’t say I’m not honored to be the one you first wanted to see, but... why? I thought you made your opinion of me clear nine years ago.”
She winced at the sliver of hurt he’d finally revealed, wishing she could go back in time, wishing she could have somehow found the courage to believe in him.
“I didn’t choose Clayton,” she reminded him. “My father didn’t give me a choice.”
He sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face, looking indescribably weary. “I know that, Clarice. Even then, I knew it. I was just lashing out. Looking for someone other than myself to blame for losing you.”
A wash of tears filled her eyes, and she blinked them furiously away. “At nineteen, I didn’t know how to fight for what I wanted. I didn’t even know that was an option.”
“Is that what you’re doing now?” he asked, his face unreadable but his eyes so bright with emotion that it took her breath away. “Are you fighting for me now, Clarice?”
Was she? Suddenly, she didn’t know. This entire thing was supposed to be about her claiming her independence. She’d wanted to be daring, to take a lover, to thumb her nose at the polite society that had failed her so terribly. She’d thought she could do this without any messy emotions getting in the way, but he’d only been here a few minutes, and already she felt out of control. She hadn’t expected him to act as though he still cared. She’d expected him to be the scoundrel that society had painted him, someone who would show her pleasure without feeling things in return.
She cleared her throat, unable to answer his question. “Dinner is ready. Let’s go to the dining room and talk more there.”
He frowned, obviously not happy with her non-answer, but then he stood and offered her his hand.
The touch of his bare skin against hers startled her. A shimmer of awareness ran up her arm. She rarely touched anyone without gloves, but she’d chosen not to wear them tonight.
Part of her wanted to jerk away because the feelings were so strong, but she forced herself to ignore it and led him through the quiet house toward the dining room. Generally, at least one of the widows was in residence here, but for tonight, the stately old mansion was empty but for herself and the servants.
Two place settings graced the long table, one at the head and the other immediately to the left. She motioned for him to take the seat at the head of the table, but he pulled out the other chair first, waiting for her to be seated before he took his own.
As soon as they’d taken their seats, footmen came in to pour their wine and put steaming bowls of rich turtle soup before them, and she took that opportunity to observe him out of the corner of her eyes, trying to discern all the little ways that time had changed him.
Dear Lord, he was a beautiful man. If anything, he was even more attractive now than he’d been before. A shiver of what could only be desire shimmered through her, and she dropped her gaze to her soup, wishing she knew what to say to him.
Roman waited until the servants had left the room before leaning back in his chair and gazing at her with those gorgeous blue eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Question? For a moment, she couldn’t remember what he was talking about. Oh, yes. Am I fighting for him?
