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“You have a purpose for your visit, Lord Cadwell?” she relented at last.
He eyed her carefully. “Indeed.”
The man was insufferable. He was not making this easy for her.
“My cousin is not here,” she informed him, tossing her gloves into a basket with her gardening tools. She was determined that he would not know the pain she had felt when he had left the château with only the slightest by-your-leave. Nor would he know the anger she felt—anger that now fueled her nerves when a part of her wanted only to flee from him that she might shed her tears in solitude.
“I came not for her.”
Of course she knew that. Her uncle had said as much. Nonetheless, and though she knew not the purpose of his call, she felt gratified to hear from his own lips that he was here for her, no matter his purpose.
“Then why did you come?” she ventured.
“Our farewell at the château was unsatisfactory,” he answered, his voice dark.
Ah. She had suspected he had more compassion than he had shown.
“I found it decent enough,” she lied and even managed a small smile at him. Her response seemed to unsettle him, but her triumph was diminished by the wretchedness she felt. She wished he would leave so that she might properly grieve over a romance that lived only in her imagination, berate herself for having been such a dolt, and return to being the sensible young woman her uncle had praised but moments ago. A sensible and wiser woman.
He narrowed his eyes. “It was an abrupt adieu.”
“It was.” She considered as she picked up her basket, proud that she maintained her composure, but she did not trust it to last much longer. “But pray do not trouble yourself on that.”
She turned to leave but he grasped her wrist. Her heart hammered violently at his touch.
“Trouble myself?” he said in a near growl. “I have only slept fitfully these last seven nights since leaving you.”
For the first time she noticed the darkness beneath his eyes. Had he as strong a conscience as that? Despite her anger at him, her heart ached for his distress.
When he did not release her, she glanced toward the house to see if her uncle might be watching. He would not approve of such familiarity from the earl. Realizing the same, Lord Cadwell dropped her wrist—reluctantly, it seemed.
“It was my own fault,” he said. “It was not a proper farewell.”
Though his jaw was still tight, the look in his eyes had softened. She faltered and could not stop her voice from quavering as she asked, “What…what would you have considered a proper farewell, my lord?”
His gaze made the space about them intimate without his having to stir. His response was low and husky. “Something I dare not do at present, for I would not cause a scandal in your uncle’s garden.”
She stared at him with her mouth agape. Groaning, he glan
ced toward the house, then defiantly stepped toward her, placed his finger beneath her chin as he had done that night in the theater, and closed her mouth.
“Your lips will be the death of me, Miss Merrill,” he murmured.
The hammering of her heart moved up into her head, making it difficult for her to think. His touch recalled their night of passion, and her body thrilled to it instantly. In his eyes, she now beheld a smoldering agony. Did she dare hope…?
“My lips?”
“Yes. The vision of which has haunted me day and night.”
She closed her eyes and heard his words echo in her head. Haunted me day and night. Just as he had haunted her thoughts and dreams. The anguish melted from her and with it her calm.
A breeze wafted around them, blowing the scent of the flowers into the air.
As if encouraged by the look in her eyes when she opened them, Sebastian continued, “I came, Miss Merrill, to inform your uncle of my intentions to court you.”
Dumbfounded, she could only stare at him. The words he had uttered sounded almost ludicrous. Court her?
“I intend the courtship to bear all the markings of respectability,” he assured her, unsettled by her silence, “though, damn me, it will be no easy feat when my body burns with desire for you.”
