Page 41 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

“Yes. It’s the largest and grandest of the suites, intended for the most distinguished guests. Each of the main suites comprises a bedroom, a private parlour, and a dressing and bathing room. They all have sea views, naturally.”

“Oh, it’s splendid,” Hetty exclaimed, admiring his drawings. “I can just picture it. What a wonderful view there will be from the windows, and a terrace too. I am there now, sitting with a glass of champagne, watching the sun go down.” She closed her eyes, perfectly able to envisage the delightful scene.

“You have a wonderful imagination.”

“Oh, I’ve never been short of that commodity,” she said with a laugh, looking back at him, but there was no laughter in his eyes. In fact, she felt his mood had darkened perceptibly.

“Well, perhaps you will honeymoon there when you marry.”

Hetty looked at him in surprise, for the words had been terse rather than teasing. “Do you know something I don’t, Mr Bramwell?”

His lips quirked. “Isn’t that the aim of every young lady, to make a splendid match? I imagine there is a line of eligible gentlemen queuing up, hoping to snare you.”

She did not know if it was the slightly cynical note to his words, or the assumption that this was the sum total of her ambition, but Hetty’s temper lit. “Of snaring my dowry, you mean. I can assure you, they don’t care a button about me.”

He laughed, but there was an edge to it that felt like judgement. “Oh, they care,” he said dryly. “Come, my lady. You know you are beautiful. What man in his right mind would not wish for such a prize?”

“I am also opinionated, loud, bossy and as stubborn as a mule,” she said, crossing her arms. “The only offers I’ve had are from men who would tolerate me and welcome my money with open arms. That’s not the kind of marriage I want, nor my sister, though she is to be married off to some fat old man now as our father has lost patience with her refusing every offer she’s had. If he thinks I’ll be as biddable, he’s mad.”

“Who?” he asked, looking troubled by this information.

“The Earl of Crenshaw,” she said bitterly.

“Good God.” Mr Bramwell appeared as disgusted at the notion as she was, which mollified her somewhat.

“Indeed. So, you see, our lives are not quite as carefree and pretty as you might wish to believe.”

He frowned, bracing his arms on the table and staring down at the plans, though she did not believe he saw them. “I apologise. It was crass of me to speak so.”

“Then why did you?”

He was quiet for a long moment and then shook his head, his lips quirking. “I don’t know. Jealousy, perhaps. Something about the vision of you sitting on the terrace of this wonderful hotel. It’s my design, my vision, and yet I shall never be able to afford to stay there.”

“You don’t know that,” Hetty said, touched that he would confess such a thing to her. She might not have much experience with men, but she knew from observing her brother and father that a man’s pride was a force not to be underestimated. “I believe a man of your talents and ambition will be wildly successful.”

“You really do have a vivid imagination,” he said with a laugh.

Hetty smiled wistfully. They were standing close now, the sleeve of his coat brushing her bare arm. It was such a small thing, but her attention fixed upon that tiny brush of fabric, her skin burning with the longing for something else, something more. “I do, though I do not need it to know that much is true. But perhaps we shall both enjoy visiting the hotel one day, perhaps we shall both find happiness.”

His gaze sharpened, fixing on her. Hetty blushed, realising belatedly how that sounded. She had not meant to imply that they would be there together, at least, she didn’t think she had.

Mr Bramwell’s grey eyes were stormy, turmoil swirling deep in their depths. Hetty had the sudden desire to quiet the storm, to discover what troubled him so and fix it, at least to ease the tension she sensed thrumming beneath his skin.

It was pure instinct to reach out, to cover his hand with hers. It was the act of a friend; she told herself, offering reassurance, but when his other hand reached for her, cupping her cheek, she was glad. So very glad. His hand was warm, large, and a little rough against her cheek.

Hetty closed her eyes, turning her face into his palm and pressing her lips against it.

She heard his swift inhalation, sensed that she had crossed a line, and opened her eyes in time to see his head lower towards her. Instead of turning away, like a proper young lady ought to do, she lifted her face to meet his kiss.

His lips were soft, as was the kiss. Tentative at first, he teased her mouth with his own, but then something changed. Hetty reached for him, throwing her arms around his neck in the same instant that he pulled her close. Suddenly she was enveloped in heat, crushed by the power of a hard, male body, the kiss no longer tender, but searing, demanded, asking things she had no answer for but was only too willing to agree to if he showed her how.

He made a low sound, a tortured groan that thrilled her to her very core, and then thrust her away as if she was the one who burned him, who had branded him, instead of the other way around.

“Bad… bad idea,” he said breathlessly. “Oh, Christ.”

He walked away from her, raking a hand through his hair, looking as though he’d rather tear it out at the roots.

Hetty flushed, humiliated by the depths of his regret for what he’d done. For what they’d done.