Page 37 of Courting Elizabeth

We stood in the middle of a gallery where any servant might appear. That possibility made every breath sharper. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then to my neck.

“Your ribbon is undone,” he said.

I raised my hand to my collar. One of the ties holding the small muslin fichu had come loose.

“I’ll fix it.”

“May I?”

The question now carried a meaning that went beyond any single gesture.

I nodded.

He raised his hands. His fingers brushed my nape as he took up the ribbon. He could have tied it without touching me; he didn’t quite manage that. The backs of his fingers traced the skin beneath my ear. I felt every movement deep in my belly.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

“The gallery is cool.”

“Liar.”

The word was not a reproach. His voice had changed—lower, more intimate than I’d ever heard it.

I looked up.

His face was so close I could make out the fine dark line of his lashes. His mouth was no longer severe. It was parted, restrained by visible effort.

“You could kiss me,” I said.

He stopped breathing.

“What if you regretted it?”

“I would tell you.”

His thumb stilled beneath my ear. He leaned in with a slowness that still gave me every chance to pull away.

I didn’t retreat.

When less than a breath separated us, I raised my face and closed the last distance myself.

A footstep echoed at the end of the gallery.

We separated before the servant appeared. Fitzwilliam tied the ribbon with almost violent precision. I had to turn my face away for a few seconds to hide my disappointment.

“The post, sir,” the valet announced.

“In my study,” my husband replied, his eyes fixed intently on mine.

The servant bowed and departed.

Silence returned.

“We could call him back and ask him to wait until you’ve finished,” I suggested.

Fitzwilliam looked at me, then burst out laughing.

I had never heard that laugh before. Deep, free, almost young. It transformed his face.