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Her jest had stirred something deep within him. Slowly, he stepped forward, reclaiming the distance he had only moments ago been so determined to put between them, until not even an inch remained. He felt the faint shiver that passed through her before he lowered his head, bringing his mouth close to her ear. He told himself the proximity served only to spare him the scrutiny of those infuriatingly green eyes.

"What I want to do to you right now would be far too scandalous for the society papers. Hell, it would make that ridiculous book you presented me with blush."

To his surprise, instead of a gasp, instead of a retreat, he was greeted by soft hands curling around his shoulder.

"Then do it, make me yours, make me your wife, and not just in name, Arthur." Every excuse he had clung to over the past weeks slipped through his fingers. He could feel his heart pounding, his pulse thundering in his ears. For months, he had resisted her advances, fought the impossible temptation to reach for her whenever she smiled at him. He had married her for a reason—for duty. For an heir. Hell, now one was needed more than ever, so perhaps this had always been inevitable. Yet somewhere along the way, duty had become something far more dangerous.

God, he had come to care for her. Arthur often would work late into the evening in his study, only half-reading the papers before him, listening instead for the familiar patter of her bare feet wreaking havoc upon the marble floors as she danced her way through the house. He had begun measuring the hours not by the grandfather clock in the hall, but by where she was. Sketching after breakfast. Reading to Radnor at midday. Terrorising Cook with another impossible baking experiment after luncheon.

Every morning he woke already thinking of her. Every evening he found himself searching for the sound of her voice before he realised he was doing it. Eliza had become as much a part of his day as breathing itself. There were worse fates than desiring one's own wife, he supposed. They could continue to share a bed until an heir or two had been produced. That had been the agreement from the beginning, and God knew he had made certain she understood it. He had made her repeat the terms of their bargain back to him, unwilling to discover too late that he had married some wishful fool who expected affection where none had been promised. Perhaps, then, he had been mistaken in interpreting her relentless pursuit as anything more than duty. She wanted to honour the bargain they had struck. To give him the family he required. Nothing more.

Like him, Eliza understood duty.

Yes. That had to be it. If she was acting on duty, just as he intended to, then neither of them could be hurt by what followed.

It was a comfortable lie. It was also the only one he had left.

Eliza shimmied herself onto his desk and wrapped her legs around his waist. Christ. So much for distance. There were layers upon layers of clothing between them, and still he felt her instantly, a sharp flicker of pleasure running through him before he could suppress it. He bent to capture her mouth again.

And then she was in his arms. One hand beneath her, the other finding the nape of her neck as he lifted her effortlessly from the desk and sank into his chair with her settled across his lap. Better. She was above him here. Free to pull away, to stand, to put an end to this whenever she wished.

She did none of those things.

She moaned softly in his arms. God, she was delicate. He should pull away. He knew he should. Yet every time he slowed, every moment he offered her the chance to retreat, she did precisely the opposite. She followed him. Chased him.

That was why he had put her here. Above him. In control. If she wanted distance, she needed only take it. He would not hold her there.

Her hair had fallen loose around her shoulders as she straddled his thighs, trapping him rather effectively against the chair while his mouth remained on hers. His hands travelled gently along her sides, but never tightened. No matter how desperately he wanted to pull her closer. “Are you sure you want to continue?” he rasped, gently lifting her chin between two fingers, searching her face for any trace of hesitation.

She simply nodded, drawing herself closer. His mouth returned to her throat, pressing a trail of kisses against her skin.

It took every ounce of his composure to slow himself. His mouth lingered against the bare skin just above the neckline of her dress, and somehow he dragged enough sense back into his head to speak.

“Wife,” he gritted out, “questions require answers.”

Her own words. God, he might have laughed had every scrap of self-control he possessed not been otherwise occupied.

“And I will stop if you don’t answer me.”

“Yes,” she gasped, pulling her chin from his fingers and tipping her head back as his hand disappeared beneath her skirts and travelled slowly along her thigh.

God help him. He had a dozen maps scattered throughout this room, had spent countless hours bent over borders and battle lines, and not one of them had ever promised treasure half so worthy as the woman presently in his lap.

His free hand settled against her stomach, gently easing her backwards until she rested against the desk. He gathered her skirts and petticoats higher. No stockings. Of course there were no bloody stockings. When did the woman ever wear them? She seemed determined to spend half her existence wandering barefoot around Winworth. And now here she was. Bare.

Before him.

Christ.

He swallowed the sound threatening to escape him and lowered himself, drawing her legs over his shoulders. He began pressing kisses along the inside of her thighs, slowly making his way closer. Her hand found him almost immediately, her fingers slipping gently through his hair.

She was reaching for him. That nearly undid him more than anything else.

Arthur’s journey beneath Eliza’s skirts had scarcely begun when the door swung open with a heavy thud. Three deliberate footsteps followed. Arthur was on his feet before he had consciously decided to stand, his arm circling Eliza’s back as she bolted upright.

Laurence stood perfectly still three paces inside the doorway, holding a leather-bound folio firmly over his eyes with all the solemn dignity of a man pretending not to witness something he had absolutely witnessed. Only his mouth remained visible, and Arthur knew from the unmistakable smirk tugging at its corners that the daft man was enjoying himself far more than was reasonable.

"I am incredibly sorry for the interruption," Laurence began. "A more honourable nobleman would have quietly closed the door and pretended this conversation never happened."