Page 85 of The Earl’s Marriage of Convenience

And yet, with Edwin…

It came without effort.

As though he drew it from her rather than she choosing it. A faint warmth rose to her cheeks—unplanned, unguarded. She lowered her gaze, smoothing her skirts with quiet precision, allowing herself a moment to recover her composure. She was not accustomed to speaking without first considering how each word might be received. When she looked up again, Edwin was watching her.

He shifted his gaze away almost immediately, as though he had been studying her in her distraction. But when his eyes returned to hers—something had changed. Even in the soft wash of moonlight, she saw it. His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, over her features. And then—

To her lips.

A quiet awareness stirred through her. Not sharp nor sudden, but undeniably there. Her own gaze faltered—then dropped, almost of its own accord, to his mouth. And with it came the memory…

The warmth of his breath. The press of his lips. The way the world had seemed, for a fleeting moment, to narrow to nothing but that singular point of contact. A faint shiver passed through her.

“We never spoke of it,” he said at last, his voice low, his gaze lifting once more to meet hers.

“No,” she replied softly. “We have been … rather occupied.” A small smile touched her lips before she could stop it.

“Indeed,” he murmured, a quiet note of amusement threading through the word. His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than propriety would strictly allow. “It is rather odd, is it not? That the very circumstance which brought us into this arrangement … is the one matter we have most carefully avoided addressing.”

“Avoided?” she returned lightly, though there was something beneath the word now. “I thought we were merely busy. Preoccupied, as you said.”

“I have attempted to be,” he admitted. “And we have had much to occupy us.” His gaze dropped again—inevitably—drawn as though by something beyond intention.

“But…”

The word lingered between them.

“I do not quite know how to explain it,” he continued after a moment, his voice lowering further, quieter now, stripped of its usual polish. “Everything I have done of late has been deliberate. Considered. Intentional.” He paused. “And yet, with you…” Another pause—longer this time. “That intention seems to … slip. As though it never existed at all.” His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “And I find myself acting on something dangerously close to instinct.” He gave the smallest lift of his shoulder, a gesture almost uncertain—vulnerable in a way she had not yet seen from him. “And I do not know what to do with that.”

The admission settled between them.

Unshielded.

It called to something in her—something answering, something equally unguarded.

As so often seemed to happen between them, like recognized like.

She drew in a quiet breath. “I understand that more than I ought,” she said softly. She glanced down at her hands, folded now in her lap. “I have always been … in control,” she continued. “Of my thoughts. My actions. My words. Everything has been deliberate. Measured. For a purpose.”

Her voice faltered—only slightly. “I did not expect…” She hesitated, feeling so out of her own element. Taking a courageous breath, she finished, more quietly, “To find myself otherwise.” She did not look up. Not immediately. It was difficult enough to say the words without having to see his reaction to them.

After a moment, she felt his hand—gentle, careful—tilt her chin upward. Her breath caught slightly as her gaze met his once more.

“At least we suffer from the same affliction,” he said softly, a half smile touching his lips.

She returned it, faint but real.

“And, dare I say, it has worked rather well for us.”

“It would seem so,” she agreed. “Which is fortunate,” she added lightly, though the truth beneath the words remained. “As we have little choice in the matter now.”

The reality of it settled more fully then.

There was no going back.

He would be her husband.

She would be his wife.