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Chapter Twenty-Eight
Arabella sat in the parlor with her lady’s maid. She had a book, open in her lap. She sat, placing her head in her hand. She closed her eyes. She was beginning to tire of having the Duke of Longmire forced on her.
So, she kept herself occupied with thoughts of Charles. She remembered their kiss, in the garden. The way that the moonlight had fallen on his face. His hands on her waist, pulling her to him.
She recalled gripping at his shirt, while his hand rested upon her lower back, drawing her closer to him. Her pulse quickened as she thought of it.
The door opened, “Mr. Charles Conolly,” Mr. Blankley said. Arabella’s eyes shot open. It was almost as if she’d conjured him.
What luck! To be home alone, when Charles has come to call!
“Oh, My Lady,” Charles said, blinking in surprise. “I can come back—”
“Don’t be silly Mr. Conolly,” she replied. “Come and sit.”
“It isn’t—”
“Well, Annette is here,” she pointed out, sitting down and patting the settee cushion beside her. “It’s all very proper,” she assured him, flashing him her winning smile.
He seemed to melt, starting with his eyes. Then, he walked over and sat.
“Is your father not in?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, no. What did you come to tell him?” she asked. Until recently, her father always kept her apprised of his business.
“I don’t—” he began, trailing off. He frowned. This was so unlike him—he was usually so sure of himself.
“Charles?” she asked, studying him. “What’s wrong?”
“You always read me like a book,” he said, looking away from her.
“Naturally,” she replied, then waited for him to tell her everything.
“I wish that things could have been different,” he said. “No one has ever understood me in the way that you do.”
“No one has loved you as much as I love you,” she replied, daring to tell him the truth.
“It can never be,” he replied, shaking his head sadly.
“Are you really giving up so easily?” she asked. She didn’t dare give up hope. There was still time.
“The longer that you keep holding a flame for me, the more opportunities that you’re missing out on,” he replied.
“They’re not worth having,” she told him, flatly. She was ready to fight him. Her longing for him was causing an ache in her chest. There he was, so close to her, and yet so far away.
When he seemed about to say no, she placed her hand on his arm. “Please. I love you, Charles.”
“Arabella—”
“That’s more like it.” They both grinned at each other, and he covered her hand with his own, lacing his fingers in between hers. He looked down at their hands. When his gaze lifted, his eyes meeting hers, there was a fire in them. This was the gentleman with whom she’d fallen in love—the gentleman who regarded her with warm passion. Her pulse quickened.
* * *
It was a relief, in a way, to be sitting there with Arabella. They hadn’t been this close, since their last encounter—in the garden. It seemed like it had happened an age ago, when it had been only a week. They were both quiet, staring into each other’s eyes. She licked her lips, her eyes on his lips.
“I—I can’t stop thinking about the last time that we spoke,” she whispered, her voice husky.
“I can’t, either,” he replied. His hand still sat on top of hers, which was still on his upper arm. She squeezed. He watched as she bit her lip. His whole body lit up as he thought of taking her lip in between his own teeth.
