She had given in, quite foolishly, and referred to him by his given name as he had repeatedly entreated. He had been pleased. She had sensed it, though he had not remarked upon her calling him Benedict.
The name suited him. It suited her far too much to allow it to roll off her tongue. It suited her even more to allow him intimacies she should not permit any man. Her feelings for him had grown since yesterday, and there was no help for it.
After the time spent in fear with her captors, followed by the frigid walk through January’s cold to return home, being in his arms had felt far too natural. Far too good. And when he had intruded upon her bath later, it had required every modicum of control she possessed to keep from grabbing fistfuls of his immaculate waistcoat and pulling him into the bath with her.
When he had washed her with that cloth, he had brought to life that same simmering warmth he always made her feel. This time, however, the raw desire had been more potent. And then, his fingers had grazed her, beneath the water, sending such a rush of need to her core that she had nearly cried out.
But for all the repressed sensuality of the ablutions he had performed upon her, it had been the sweet, caring way he had let down her chignon, then gently worked the shampoo into her hair, that had filled her with the most yearning. Because those actions were not about seduction. He had wanted to take care of her. And the knowledge was far more dangerous than all the illicit kisses and touches in the world.
Because it made her foolish heart long for things she could never have.
If she had any questions about the vastness of the differences between them, she need only look at the gilt and glossed, exotic woods, the elaborate carvings, the thick Axminster carpets, and the sheer size of this chamber, to remind her. Had she learned nothing from the mistakes of her past?
Like that long-ago summer when she had visited Mama’s cousins at their country house and she had met Henry, she was once more perilously close to believing the unattainable could be hers. She had been young and naïve when she had believed the feelings she shared with Lord Lambert could have sustained the differences in their class.
For although her mother had been born to an eminent family, her father had been a tradesman all his life. And though he had amassed a tidy fortune by the time of his death, it still paled in comparison to the ancestral wealth of the lady Lambert had gone on to wed. Just as it paled in comparison to that of the Duke of Westmorland.
No, she reminded herself sternly as she rose from the bed, she must not allow herself to believe she could ever hope to obtain anything from Benedict other than another offer to be his mistress. And that she would not do. No matter how much she wanted him.
Not even if Benedict had been attentive and sweetly respectful after he left her to finish her bath yesterday. Not even if he had hovered worriedly outside the salon while Dr. Gilmore had performed his examination of the injury to her head before proclaiming her mildly concussed but otherwise in good health. Not if he had treated her as if she were a fine lady at dinner when she had dined with he and Callie.
Today was a new day, and she would shake herself from the shackles of fear which had been holding her back since her abduction the morning before. She marched to the bathing room and washed her face and hands at the washstand. After drying her face, she went about the task of dressing herself, just as she had always done.
When she was once more garbed in her standard black, hair secured in a knot at her nape, she took a deep breath and then left her chamber. For a moment, she stood in the hall, forgetting which direction to turn. Westmorland House was like nothing so much as a maze. Left, she recalled, and set off in that direction.
She had not made it far when another door opened behind her. The charge in the air and frisson that went down her spine warned her who was emerging before she spun about and confirmed her suspicions.
The unfairly gorgeous man she had been fretting over ever since—well, ever since she had met him, in truth—was striding toward her. His golden hair was perfectly parted, his jaw freshly shaved, and his cutaway and trousers were just as wonderfully tailored as the day before. And the day before that. And every occasion upon which she had ever seen him.
Also unfair.
For a wild moment, she considered turning and fleeing back to the safety of her guest chamber. But then she realized how silly she would appear, so she stood where she was and dipped into her best curtsey instead.
You can do this, Isabella. He is only a man, after all. You can resist him.
But could she? When he was so tender and caring, rather than merely the skilled lover she found so alluring, how could she maintain her guard and defenses?
“Good morning,” she offered, chasing her troubling thoughts.
It was rather unsettling to discover he had been sleeping so very near to her. Twenty paces down the hall, that was all.
He bowed, small smile flitting over his sensual lips. “Good morning to you, Isabella. How are you feeling? Is your head paining you?”
His concern took her aback once more, though after yesterday, she supposed she ought not to be surprised. How she wished he had been flippant. Or flirtatious. It would have been easier
