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“Nicholas.” His name signaled a concession they both recognized.
Starlight glimmered on his white shirt—did the man never go decently dressed in coat and neck cloth?—but she discerned few other details. She didn’t need to see him. His image was etched on her heart. Handsome, careless, wicked.
Precious. . .
“I knew you’d come.” He sounded calm, sure.
The darkness sharpened senses other than sight. She heard the rustle of the trees, smelled the slight dankness of the lake behind her, felt the evening breeze cool against her skin. Skin flushed with awareness.
“You waited three days.”
“I can be patient,” he responded steadily.
She bit her lip. Had she expected to see him? Did her presence mean they’d make love? Somewhere she’d already said yes.
“Are you going to run?” he asked in a casual voice, as if consent or refusal were all the same to him. But even in the shadows, she saw he tautened with anticipation.
“I should.”
He straightened and prowled down to the bottom step. She knew he waited for her to flee like a frightened bird. Like a woman with an ounce of self-preservation.
He became preternaturally still. His voice was low, coaxing, thick and deep as velvet. “What’s it to be, Antonia?”
“Don’t bully me, Ranelaw,” she said sharply.
“Are you pretending you’re just out for an evening walk?”
That’s what she’d told herself. Not even she believed it.
She’d left the house, wandered toward the summerhouse, because she knew Ranelaw waited. She admitted that to herself. She wasn’t quite ready to admit it to him. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
Her eyes had adjusted enough to see the glint of his teeth as he smiled. “Yes, you did.”
What use struggling to preserve her pride? He’d soon know she was helpless to resist him. He knew already.
“Yes, I did,” she answered almost soundlessly.
The words lay between them like a challenge.
She poised in breathless suspense for him to sweep her into his arms. Across the several yards separating them, she couldn’t mistake his urgency. The silence developed a vibrating quality. Even the breeze dropped in expectation.
Why hadn’t he touched her yet? They both knew she wouldn’t fight.
He turned his face to the glittering sky then he stared directly at her. Through darkness, that regard burned.
“Why?” The question cut through the night like a blade.
She released a disbelieving gasp of laughter. “I can’t believe you’re haver
ing. You’ve schemed to get me on my back since we met.”
She heard the scrape of his boots as he shifted. Still without coming closer. “And you’ve fought with all the determination you could muster.”
“Not always,” she said with reluctant honesty.
“What you’ve yielded, you’ve yielded against better judgment.”
“I’m here against better judgment.” She clenched her hands in the skirts of the dress she’d chosen because in the recesses of her mind, she’d hoped to meet Ranelaw. A dress that belonged to Antonia Hilliard not Antonia Smith. He’d never know her identity, but tonight he’d make love to her true self.
