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Only now did she admit that he’d had provocation for his cruelty. And he’d been young, too. At the time, his four years seniority had seemed a lifetime. Now she realized he’d been a boy of twenty-one coping with a difficult wife, immature even for her seventeen years.
No wonder he’d been glad to see the back of her.
She struggled to swallow what felt like a boulder stuck in her throat.
If they’d spoken like this after their marriage, perhaps they might have stayed together. But of course, neither of them had been capable of setting aside pride and vanity to face why their union failed. Now it was too late.
Too late—the saddest words in the language.
Her voice emerged as a husky whisper and her hands tightened on the arms of the chair until they ached. “There’s no point revisiting all this history. Really, tonight we’re just chance-met strangers.”
Kinvarra’s lips tilted in the half smile that had made her seventeen- year-old heart somersault. To her dismay, her mature self found the smile just as beguiling.
“Surely more than that.” He raised his glass. “To my wife, the most beautiful woman I know.”
“Stop it.” Alicia turned away, blinking back hot tears. This excruciating weight of emotion in her chest was only weariness. She refused to recognize it as the knowledge that all those years ago she’d sacrificed something precious. “Tomorrow it will be as though this meeting never happened.”
Even in her own ears, the words sounded choked with regret. She’d thought when she finally accepted Harold’s advances that she was over her inconvenient yen for her husband. How tragically wrong she’d been. Tonight proved her as impressionable as ever.
In silent defiance, she straightened her back against the chair. Kinvarra might be kind now, he might be considerate. But after all the pain between them, she could never let herself trust him again.
Kinvarra studied her with a speculative light in his black eyes. A premonitory shiver chilled her. If she wasn’t careful, he’d have all her secrets. And she’d have no pride left.
She attempted a brighter tone. “Are you keeping that wine just for yourself?”
He laughed softly and raised his glass in another silent toast, as if awarding her a point in a contest. “Here.”
He passed her the glass and bent to tug at her boot. She took a sip, hoping the claret would bolster her fortitude. It didn’t.
She hadn’t missed the way he leaned toward her as he spoke and
the burgeoning tenderness in his manner. Nerves and unwilling arousal
coiled in her stomach. Did he mean to attempt a seduction? Although God knew why he’d be interested. If he’d wanted her any time, he could have sent for her. His long silence spoke volumes about his indifference.
His hands were brisk and efficient, almost impersonal, as he pulled her boots off. Automatically she stretched her legs out and wriggled her toes. A relieved sigh escaped her.
He looked up with a smile as he sat back. “Better?”
“Better,” she admitted, taking some more wine. The rich flavor filled her mouth and slipped down her throat, washing away a little more of her bitterness.
Whatever happened tonight, she was unexpectedly grateful she’d had this chance to share a few hours with her husband. Hatred and rancor had dogged her since she’d left Kinvarra. Only now as those reactions ebbed did she realize how they’d soured her life. She inhaled, feeling as though she breathed fully for the first time in ten years.
He laid one elegant hand on her ankle. Even through the stocking, his touch burned. “You always had cold feet.”
She closed her eyes. Imagine him remembering such a minor detail. Common sense dictated that she pull back, that she’d veered into dangerous territory. “I still do.”
“I’ll warm them up.” “Mmm.”
She was so tired, and the cozy room and surprisingly cordial atmosphere sapped her will. When Kinvarra began to rub her feet, gentle warmth stole up her legs. If his touch even hinted at encroaching further, she’d stop him. But all he did was buff her feet until she was ready to purr with pleasure.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, even when her feet glowed with heat and he had to reach forward to rescue the empty wine glass from her loosening hand.
He laughed softly and she struggled not to hear fondness in the sound. Kinvarra wasn’t fond of her. He’d never been fond of her. Family arrangement had foisted her on him, an English heiress to fill the coffers of his Scottish earldom. Her abominable behavior during their year together had only confirmed his suspicions that he’d married
a brat.
“Let’s have our supper before it gets cold. You’re exhausted.”
