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He did, his eyes drinking her in. His lungs expanded in his chest.
She wore a claret-colored paisley shawl over a simple fawn dress, and she was stunning.
James studied her for clues about her intentions.The excruciating tick-tock of the eight-foot-tall longcase clock was audible from across the room in the stillness.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
His pounding heart created a faster drumbeat in his ears, overtaking the clock.
Riveted, James didn’t so much as blink. Detecting the slightest of movements, his eyes darted to her pale hands, draped elegantly on her lap.
Relief washed over him; a fine tremor moved through her hands. She was affected, too.
Clara brought her gaze up to his.
He pushed out an audible breath borne both of relief and passion. He wasn’t alone in this—the fire burned in her, too.
“You’re here.”
∞∞∞
Clara remained quiet as Mr. Robertson stood before her. He made no further effort to break the ice with either a polite greeting or welcome. Neither did she. She couldn’t—not as the reality of what she was about to do dawned.
However fierce he looked, she reveled in his appearance. His dark hair fell in shiny, clean waves, and he wore an ivory shirt, but neither a jacket nor cravat. His defined jaw clenched, and his hands opened and closed by his sides.
Clara reminded herself of the relief that she’d heard in his voice.
You’re here.
Emboldened, she stood up. “You told me that if I sent you away, you wouldn’t come back. So I have come to you.”
Her words, spoken softly and with forced confidence, hung in the air.
Mr. Robertson’s hands stopped flexing—he stopped moving altogether. She looked past the tension in his body and concentrated on his eyes.
She’d crossed the threshold of his mansion, not knowing how James handled his wounded pride. Did her previous rejection embitter him? Had he taken a more willing lover? Could his desire have withered on the vine?
His eyes shone as they adored and devoured her. Her countless questions burned away, answered.
Clara cast off her shawl with a movement of her shoulders and tossed it to the chair behind her. “When you visited, I wasn’t prepared for what you offered. Now I am.”
His mouth parted as he looked down at her gown. The fabric was soft and fine, its cut plain and modest, designed to be worn without the usual number of petticoats and undergarments. But she might well have visited him without wearing anything—for today she’d called on him without wearing a corset!
He looked as if he’d been handed a fragile object and been told not to move, lest it break. Whatever boldness brought him to her home, she was the one in command of the situation now.
Her chin lifted.“Let us speak of the details of our arrangement.” Clara infused her statement with determination.
His eyebrow arched as she walked around him, but he didn’t otherwise move, even when she stopped behind him.
“I must specify certain rules which are essential to my acceptance of your…invitation,” she continued.
Only his head turned. His restraint and stillness reassured her. She allowed herself to look him up and down, eyes lingering on his wide shoulders, his thick arms. His shirt was more loose than fitted, but the ivory fabric pulled over his biceps.
His physique set him apart from even the fittest gentlemen she knew. Many men of her class appeared almost fragile; even the more physically conditioned of them seemed delicate compared to James.
She stepped closer, moving to speak over his shoulder. This was the moment of truth.
“First, I want never to speak of my brother with you. I will not provide any information to you about him. Neither about him, nor his affairs.”
