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He could, of course, go in the other direction. The secure, lockable door, and the invitingly comfortable mattress made seduction a tempting solution.
A kiss, however, had sent Lenora fleeing. More-than-a-kiss was not likely to convince her to stay.
He shook his head, clearing his mind of encroaching carnal thoughts, then surveyed the chamber. Barker had tidied up. Everything was clean and orderly.
Still, Asquith opened the valise and spread the blanket he’d brought over Barker’s bed. There. At least he could be sure the bed covering was clean.
He envisioned them seated together, her hands nestled warmly in his. Gratitude would shine in her eyes, and conversation would flow with effortless grace.
Most of the time their banter did come easily, easier and more honest, in fact, than the quiet camaraderie he shared with Millie, or the sharp, sarcastic barbs he and Eliza traded.
Why had he failed to see how perfectly he and Lenora were suited?
He sat down.
What if she held that past hesitancy against him now? What if she still hadn’t completely forgiven him?
He gripped the mattress. Slowly he rocked, contemplating a range of possible proposals.
“I changed my mind.” Inadequate.
“You owe it to me to listen.” Certainly not. He wasn’t Willard.
“Please.” The deuce.
While begging was still distasteful to him, he would, if he must. His future was at stake.
Through some means or another, the correct path would appear. He hoped.
He ran his fingers through his hair. His gaze drifted down to the intricate patterns of the wooden floor. More than a century of use had left them smooth, almost shining. He lost himself visually, following a knot’s jagged edge.
Downstairs, the door opened.
“Asquith?” she called out in a whisper. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “Simon?”
Ah—his name on her lips.
For so long, he’d fused Simon with Willard's taunting sneers, but she said his name with affection, and the syllables resonated soft and warm.
She did love him. She must love him. He would propose, she would say yes, and everything would fall perfectly into place.
“I’m up here.” His voice rasped out, dry and coarse.
Smooth. Smooth. Smooth. He spoke internally with his eyes still fixed on the floorboards. He wasn’t even sure why he was repeating the word.
To soothe himself? To remind himself to be gentle? To soften all that had grown hard inside?
With each of her steps, the rhythmic creak of her ascending footfalls echoed, filling the quiet space. Then, the squeaking stopped. He lifted his head.
Their eyes locked in an unblinking stare. She occupied the entrance, one gentle palm touching the doorframe. She did not look like an expectant bride.
If anything, she looked capable of genuine violence.
“What prompted you to request this meeting?” she asked.
Why? She wanted to know why?
Why had she plagued him since the day they met? Why had she blackmailed him? Why could he not get her out of his head?
