“Your Grace!” Joy’s voice dragged Flora from her spinning thoughts and she was just as happy for it, even as her cheeks heated when her maid rushed to her side. Would she know? Would she see? “My apologies, Your Grace, I didn’t see you leave the other gallery.”
Flora glanced back at Roarke. He was watching her, his green gaze focused on her, sending tingles up her back. She swallowed hard and tried to make her voice normal as she said, “No apologies. Mr. Desmond and I were just exploring some of the…some of the other rooms.”
“Would you like to look at the main halls now?” Roarke asked, his voice so calm and so normal.
What she wanted to do was to flee into the street, run from these aching needs burning inside of her, run from the man who had almost kissed her but hadn’t. Run from the feelings stirred inside her.
Only that would only make this all worse. So instead she inclined her head like she’d been trained to as a lady and said, “That sounds lovely. Lead the way, Mr. Desmond.”
They walked through the other galleries together, ones Flora had seen and enjoyed many times. Only now there was no hesitating. No pressing close together to admire an image or discuss their thoughts on a composition. They marched through the spaces, only giving cursory looks to the artwork. They hardly spoke at all anymore. How she hated that. Hated that the near kiss had ruined what had been a lovely day that she’d enjoyed.
Hated that she still wished he’d kissed her there in the dimness, surrounded by those erotic pieces that Society would say a lady’s eyes shouldn’t see.
Soon enough they were coming to the end of their day, and Flora could see Roarke looking toward the huge doors that led back to the drive.
“Should I fetch your carriage, Your Grace?” Joy asked softly.
“I’ll do it,” Roarke said, and stepped away.
Flora’s heart sank. He didn’t even want to be alone with her in this big, public foyer. Was that because he didn’t want to discuss what had happened? Did he fear she would be angry or upset? Or worse, that she wouldn’t be? Oh, this was so complicated. She didn’t know how to read a man’s interest. She thought she’d felt it, but then he pushed it aside and she couldn’t find it anymore.
She let out a long sigh without meaning to and Joy glanced at her. “Are you well, Your Grace?”
She looked at her lady’s maid with what she hoped was a slight smile rather than a grimace. “Oh yes. Just difficult to leave the museum, as always. I hope you enjoyed yourself.”
Joy gave a quick nod, though her gaze darted away. Flora’s heart sank all the more. Stuart had never been all that interested in art. He’d taken her to museums as a kindness to her, and listened to her prattle on with an indulgent smile. Valaria couldn’t go out still due to her mourning. And while Bernadette also came along with Flora when she asked, she was likely as interested as Joy. So Roarke had been the first person in ages she had attended a museum with and really felt his thrill as deeply as her own.
That had been real. She knew that if nothing else.
But here he came, striding across the foyer of the museum, expression taut. He didn’t look thrilled anymore. “It should be here momentarily,” he said. “Shall we?”
He motioned to the door, almost like he couldn’t wait to leave. She ignored the faint sting of disappointment in her eyes and moved toward the front doors. He allowed her footman to help her into her carriage as he discussed something with the driver. Didn’t want to touch her now, it seemed. Joy followed and then he entered the carriage.
The drive back to Kent’s Row was far quieter and even more awkward than the one over. She found herself staring out the window after a few moments, trying to lose herself in the scenery instead of him. It couldn’t be him. And of course, why should it be? She had resigned herself long ago to the life of an independent widow. She couldn’t let a flash of desire, a hint of attention, change that. It was all very silly.
They arrived at her home and she was helped down by a servant. Joy bobbed out a curtsey and entered the house to give Flora a moment alone with her guest before his horse was brought back.
“I—” Flora began, uncertain what to say.
“I’m sorry,” he interrupted, his green gaze casting away from hers like he couldn’t bear to look at her.
She blinked. “For…for what?”
“I ought not to have shown you the private display,” he said softly. “You are a lady and it wasn’t my place to stand beside you and be with you when you looked at such shocking things.”
Her lips parted. “You think I was offended?”
He glanced back at her. “Weren’t you?”
She should have said yes. She supposed she’d been trained all her life that her answer to a question like that should be yes. That looking at those deeply intimate and erotic pieces should have created a ricochet of outrage and embarrassment.
She moved a little closer to him and heard him take in the slightest of breaths. She liked that little intake—it felt like it meant he was moved by her.
“I wasn’t offended,” she said, wishing her voice could be stronger, but only able to make it just above a whisper. “I was shocked, yes. I think anyone would be to see such things, and in a public space. But I was…moved…by what I saw. So if the reason you turned away from me in that room or afterward was that you thought you had hurt or insulted me, I will assure you now that is the furthest thing from what I felt when I looked at Pembroke’s private work with you.”
He held her stare a beat, two, and this time she wasn’t confused by what she saw in those green depths. He wanted her. She could practically feel the heat radiating from him, warming her down to her toes. To between her legs where everything felt a little achy and empty.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, and then jolted as his horse was brought to them. He glanced back at her. “I should…I should go, Flora. Your Grace.”
She bent her head. “I see.”
“You don’t. But I promise you that it is better for you. I shouldn’t have stolen this little extra time with you this afternoon, pretended that I could have it. But I enjoyed every moment, Flora.” He drew a little closer. “Every moment. Goodbye.”
He swung up on his horse and swiftly urged the animal down her drive and back out onto the street. She watched him go, heart throbbing, and only when he had disappeared from view did she realize he had said goodbye to her. Not good afternoon, not good day…goodbye.
Like she would never see him again. And her heart ached that it was a possibility.
Roarke knew he had been difficult to read during his day at the museum with Flora. He also sensed that his hot-and-cold demeanor had confused and potentially hurt her, and he hated himself for that. When he’d asked her to see the exhibit, he had wanted it to be a last good time together, without any thought to his cousins and their wicked bargain with him to investigate Flora.
But it had turned into something far more. Why had he taken her into the private room? Why had he watched her become aroused by those wicked, beautiful, passionate images Pembroke had painted of his lovers? And why the hell had he almost kissed her?
Worse, the real question that bombarded him, tormented him, was why hadn’t he kissed her? He should have kissed her in that gallery. He should have pressed her against the wall, felt her mold to him and moan against him. He should have given her what her sharp breaths and unfocused stare revealed she needed so badly.