Lord help him, Miss Faulkner would likely wreck him before she left England. Leaning against his bedchamber door after parting ways with her minutes ago, Steven tried to put his scrambled emotions in order.
He found her attractive. Yes.
He liked her. Without a doubt.
His admiration of her could not be questioned.
And he wanted her. With a desperation he’d never felt for any other woman before.
But she was destined to be a temporary anomaly in an otherwise predetermined existence. She would be leaving England soon and he would be moving on with his plans to build additional hotels. A permanent attachment was out of the question for both of them. If she remained here, her father would suffer the consequence, and she’d said enough to let him know she would never allow that.
No. Instead she would marry a man who ought to be trounced for taking advantage of Mr. Faulkner’s naïveté. Steven knew men like him, had even entered into business once with such a fellow, only to pull out and cut his losses before the man resorted to blackmail, as he’d threatened to do.
He winced. The idea of abandoning Miss Faulkner to a life that would without doubt make her miserable warred with his moral compass and with his own desire to claim her as his own. But to marry a woman he’d known for barely one week? It defied common sense. His reasoning protested the idea, but it also protested the alternative solution. Thus she wrecked him – wrecked the stability and the logic he’d always relied on and made him question if perhaps making a rash, impromptu decision might make more sense where she was concerned.
After all, he could marry her, pay Mr. Thorkilson off, and save her father in the process.
He drew a shuddering breath and began removing his jacket. Marriage wasn’t the sort of thing one went ahead with on a whim. Especially not for a man who’d no intention of entering into such a permanent union with any woman until a few seconds ago. It required thought, preparation, and some sense of certainty, surely. Of which he had none.
Crossing to the bell-pull he rang for his valet to come help him dress, then went to the washbasin where he proceeded to splash cool water on his face. There was no need for a hasty decision, he reminded himself. Some, perhaps, given the fact that Miss Faulkner would be departing in five days, but not enough to force him to make up his mind right now.
He’d wait then and think the matter through at greater length later.
The riotous state his nerves had been in since he’d entered his room relaxed on that thought. By the time his valet, Dawson, arrived, Steven felt more like himself. For now, he would focus on having another enjoyable evening in Miss Faulkner’s company.
A surge of pleasure filled his chest as he thought back on their afternoon together. They’d each been preoccupied by their separate tasks, yet there had been a comfort in not being left with all that work alone. He’d enjoyed having her near, knowing she was simply there. The fact that she’d dived into her task with purpose in order to help him heightened his appreciation.
Most other women in her position would rather have passed the time spending his money. Instead, she’d bowed her head and righted Mr. Pontoppidan’s errors with a timeliness and attention to detail that mirrored Steven’s own work ethic.
He noted the black frockcoat Dawson was presently laying out on the bed. “Sorry, I should have mentioned that I’ll be needing a navy blue one tonight. With tan trousers to match.”
“Indeed, sir.” Dawson returned the black frockcoat to the wardrobe and searched for the items Steven requested. “I trust you’ll want a pair of brown shoes for this ensemble. Might I recommend the ones that are slightly caramel colored?”
“I believe they’d be perfect, Dawson. Thank you.” Steven pulled off his waistcoat and started undoing his cravat. “What are your thoughts on the waistcoat?”
“The simpler the better with this color scheme. Perhaps in a shade of cream?”
“Excellent choice,” Steven agreed.
Forty-five minutes later, after dabbing a touch of his own personal scent to the pulse points on his neck, Steven left his room and walked the short distance to Miss Faulkner’s door, where he knocked.
A brief hesitation, and then the door opened, affording him with a vision that robbed him of words.
18
A few select golden curls spilled from the top of Miss Faulkner’s head to caress her cheeks while the rest of her tresses were carefully twisted and arranged at her nape. A shimmer of pink adorned her eyelids, accentuating the youthful prettiness she conveyed with her choice of gown.
It was as he’d instructed, yet his imaginings, he now acknowledged, did little justice to reality. Indeed, she was a vision wrapped in snowy white muslin, the bodice pleated with Grecian effect before being cinched at the waist by a wide satin ribbon while the skirts draped over her crinoline in soft diaphanous folds. To top it all off, a pair of puff sleeves beginning immediately beneath the curve of each shoulder served to highlight their graceful perfection.
Much like his own attire, the dress was well suited to a countryside picnic during the hot summer months. The need to reach out and grab her was hard to ignore. He stood stock still, not the least bit sorry he’d asked her to wear a white dress for this evening’s excursion. On the contrary, his eyes appreciated the feast she was serving, though it did make other parts of him hungry for more.
Clearing his throat, he finally managed to get his tongue working. “You look extraordinarily lovely this evening.”
His voice sounded gruff to his own ears. He wondered if she noticed.
“As do you, Mr. Donahue.”
The unexpected compliment accompanied by a playful smile made him laugh, dispelling the sexual tension that gripped him as soon as she’d opened the door. Being with her was so easy. There wasn’t the same sort of strain or forced attempt at making conversation he often experienced while keeping company with others.
Certainly, there was the underlying want he harbored for her, but beyond that, there was a newfound friendship. He’d felt it to some extent when they’d played billiards, though it had become more prevalent during their outing to Hyde Park. Whatever happened between them later, he knew he’d always cherish the moments he’d been allowed to spend in her company.
It was nearly impossible for Calista to keep her eyes off Mr. Donahue – to not be caught drooling over him like a ridiculous ninny. Surely her inclination to stare at the snug fit of his jacket across his broad chest and the way his trousers wrapped tightly across his muscular thighs proved a complete lack of sophistication on her part.
A wave of self-consciousness caught her, compelling her to glance around as he led her farther inside the pleasure park. Occasionally, he’d dip his head in greeting to various ladies and gentlemen of his acquaintance, and Calista started to realize she wasn’t the only woman who took note of Mr. Donahue’s dashing appearance. Several pairs of eyelashes fluttered while lips quirked with blatant interest – too obvious some might say when considering none of the ladies lacked male companions.
One woman even had the audacity to glance over her shoulder as she passed, allowing her regard to linger on Mr. Donahue’s backside, the intensity in her eagle-eyed gaze suggesting she tried to puzzle her way past the coat that hindered her view. Calista swung her gaze back to Mr. Donahue’s profile. If he was even remotely aware of all the attention he was receiving, he gave no indication. Instead, his eyes were fixed upon the horizon, like a ship cutting through an unwelcome series of troublesome waves.