She scrambled to gain a hold on his shoulders, but it needn’t matter because he held her so exquisitely. Suddenly, she knew she was safe there in Ashbourne’s arms. He would never let her go.
The thought sent a spark of pain through her as she remembered countless days of never feeling another’s touch, the long dark nights when she knew, just knew this would never happen. This kiss. This man. This future.
Her whimper was about more now than just the physical ecstasy of his kiss, and he must have sensed it because suddenly he broke away. It was gentle, and he made sure to set her properly back on her feet before stepping back, but he might as well have ripped her asunder for all the good the gentleness did.
The loss of him struck a new spark within her, and the pain crescendoed, her thoughts tumbling one after another.
Would he ever kiss her like that again?
Would he ever kiss at all?
Or was that to be the one and only kiss she would ever receive in this lifetime?
Quickly she tried to remember every detail, imprint it in her memory so in the future of long, dark, lonely nights she could recall it and draw whatever comfort she could from knowing it had happened.
It was several seconds before she could force herself to open her eyes and look at him. Fear of embarrassment, guilt, and inadequacy surged through her, but it would be so much worse if she didn’t open her eyes.
He stood in front of her, breathing heavily as she had expected, but his expression—
It looked as if he had lost something.
Doubt coursed through her, and she pressed a hand to her stomach.
She wanted to assure he needn’t ever do that again, that he must never be forced to endure such intimate contact with her unless necessary to beget an heir.
But the words stopped in her throat, colliding into one another like a tower of children’s blocks crumpling down, one atop the other.
Ashbourne swallowed, the movement harsh and pronounced, and the pain flared within her.
“I shall make the necessary arrangements then.” He spoke to the door behind her, and guilt and sorrow rampaged through her.
She wanted to assure him he need never know she was even there. She had been tutored by a superb governess who had taught her everything she must know to be the perfect duchess. He’d need never worry.
He’d never look upon her again unless absolutely necessary.
She would make sure of that.
But before she could say anything, he bid her goodbye and slipped out the door without once looking at her again.
He climbed into his curricle and picked up the reins, sending the matched pair of bays into a steady trot.
He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he needed air, lots and lots of precious air.
He was several blocks away from Ravenwood House before he could think clearly, and the first thing he did was adjust his trousers.
Dear God, what had he done?
He’d nearly climbed Eliza right there against her drawing room door. Never before had he reacted to a woman in such a way. It was so pure, so instinctual. He hadn’t even realized what he’d done until she’d made that final whimper.
The sound had been so full of pain, anguish, longing, and denial. He had drowned in it, overwhelmed by the despair and loneliness he had tasted in her kiss.
For the first time, he began to see the flaws in his plan.
He wanted to be callous. He wanted to be hard-hearted when it came to her burden as a wallflower in a society that demanded perfection. But he wasn’t like that. He could never be blind to another’s pain and not attempt to do something about it.
He felt the foundation of his plan quiver, and he tightened his grip on the reins.
The way she had ducked her head, stepped ever so slightly behind that defending beast of hers when he’d questioned her behavior—God, it still stabbed him in the gut. Who had done that to her? Who had made her so wary of even herself?
Who had valued her so little she could not see what she was worth?
The bays flicked their heads and whinnied, and he loosened his grip on the reins.
He’d made it to the park without knowing, and the most fashionable of the ton streamed through its gates, vibrating with the possibilities an afternoon’s outing would entail. Feathered hats and parasols bobbed alongside top hats, but he didn’t see any of it. He only saw Eliza’s face right before he kissed her.
Hurt.
Confusion.
Wariness.
Loneliness.
Her hand on that damn dog.
He turned the bays before he could change his mind and headed in the direction of his club. He couldn’t afford to let her get to him, not like this. Only one other person had ever gotten under his skin, and he wouldn’t think of her. Not again. Not ever.
He had to remain objective. He would marry Eliza and give her a home with sprawling fields she could fill with all of the dogs of her choosing. Hell, he’d build her a paddock just for her dogs if that suited her. But what he would not do was fall in love with her.
He handed off his curricle to the man at the club and bounded up the steps two at a time. It was an unusual time of day for him to be there, but Mandricks gave a nod as soon as he’d entered and by the time he’d settled into his favorite chair in his favorite retreating room, a whiskey, neat, appeared in his hand.
It was a warm day for a fire, but he sat before it anyway, staring into the flames as if to lose himself.
Too quickly memories of that day reared up in his mind. He could smell the crush of the ball around him, hear the butler announcing the names of guests as they spilled into the already full room, the muted hush that fell over the crowd as each name called was not the one for which everyone waited.
Bethany.
Damn her.
A hand to his shoulder startled him from his reverie, and he looked up to find Sebastian Fielding, the Duke of Waverly.
“Sebastian.” Dax indicated the seat opposite him. “Rather unusual to see you here.”
“I could say the same to you.” Fielding took the seat indicated. “I normally lunch with my mother on Tuesdays, but she was invited to a quilting tea. What is your excuse?”
Dax made a grumbling noise in his whiskey.
“Is that so?” Sebastian said, leaning back in his chair and propping an ankle on the opposite knee.
Dax eyed Fielding. The Duke of Waverly was a respected member of society. Dax had witnessed his attentiveness during the Parliament session and knew from various sources that the Fielding coffers were quite flush and his estates well maintained. Fielding was an analytical sort, and Dax knew him to be perceived as rude at times, but it wasn’t that the man was being hurtful. Fielding simply did not mince words. The most interesting fact about the man was that he was the closest thing Dax had to a best friend.
“I’m in search of a bride,” Dax decided to say.
Fielding merely raised an eyebrow. “It is the obligation of the title. I assume you are finding it difficult.”
“Something like that.” Dax took a swallow of whiskey. “Have you given thought to your duty in that regard?”
“Of course, I have. One shouldn’t leave such a matter to chance.”
This boded well for Dax’s own thinking.
“And what parameters have you set on the matter?”
Dax expected the usual quips of making a match that added valuable connections to a family, perhaps bringing with it valuable land and natural resources.