He moved toward her slowly, drawn in spite of himself. “You have created something of tremendous value, Isabella. I am certain your father would have been incredibly proud of what you have accomplished.”
Her composure cracked, just for an instant. Her full lower lip trembled. “Thank you.”
No Your Grace, but still not a Benedict, either.
“I am not offering you inflated praise or false flattery,” he told her, lest she doubt his sincerity. “When I said I admire you, I meant all of you. The part of you that is so devoted to creating something of your own, to helping other ladies find the training to obtain situations that will support them and their families. I admire that as well. Not just your beauty.”
And her fragile, wild beauty was intrinsic to who she was. She was thorny as a rose, mysterious as fog, elusive as a bird, more magnificent than any woman he had ever known. A lady like her would never again cross his path. He understood that instinctively. Every part of her was unique. She was a true original.
Pink flared to life in her cheeks. “I am not beautiful at all.”
How wrong she was about herself.
“You underestimate your allure,” he said simply, wondering if that no-account fop Lambert was responsible for the manner in which she buried herself in somber, colorless sacks and hid the glory of her hair in joyless chignons. “Why?”
“I have no allure.” Her fingers twisted nervously in the folds of her skirts, the dainty knuckles white-boned and rising in stark relief. “I believe our break has gone on long enough. If you do not mind, I should return to typewriting this report for you, else I shall never complete it by lunch.”
“Hang the report,” he declared on an impulse. “I want to speak with you.”
“You have just spoken with me, Your Grace. A great deal.” Her full mouth tightened into a prim line.
Was it disapproval, or was it an act of repression? Either way, the formality had returned, and he did not like it. She clung to it, rather like a shield, for her own protection.
“You called me Benedict last night,” he reminded her, stopping just short of her.
Close enough he could catch her waist in his hands if he chose. But he would not force this. He wanted her to meet him halfway this time. He could not forever be the one who initiated intimacies between them.
The pink in her cheeks darkened.
God, she was adorable when she was embarrassed. His lips ached to feel hers beneath them once more.
“Last night, I had suffered a blow to the head,” she dismissed, her tone deliciously tart. “My wits were addled.”
Even when she rebuffed him, he wanted her more than he wanted his next breath.
When the devil had he become so besotted with her?
“I do not think that is why you called me by my given name, sweetheart.” He paused, his eyes on hers as he dared the endearment once more. He had used it before, of course. But when he used it now, it held a different significance. A stronger meaning that had been absent before.
He touched her then, reaching out to take one of the hands buried in her skirts in his. He twined their fingers together, and she did not resist. Instead, she held him tighter, clinging. Their palms touched.
The expression on her lovely face turned stricken. There was no other way to describe it. She bit her lip, and her eyes glistened. Stormy violet and smoky gray drowned in blue, and he was drowning, too. In her.
Lost.
Or perhaps found.
“Benedict,” she whispered. “I cannot do this with you.”
It was a plea, but not the plea he wanted to hear. He was going to fight her in this.
“What can you not do?” he prodded, wanting to make her say the words aloud.
Again, her lower lip trembled. “What do you want from me?”
“Everything.” The word was a confession. The stark, absolute truth. A truth he had done his best to ignore, to banish. A truth he could not outrun, no matter how hard he tried.
She shook her head slowly. “You cannot have that.”
Yes, he could. He was determined. But he kept that to himself for now.
Instead, he posed a different question. “Then what can I have? What will you give me?”
“This is wrong.” But as she spoke, her fingers tightened on his. She did not look convinced the words she spoke were truth. Instead, she looked torn. Beautifully, heart-wrenchingly torn.
He did not falter. “Why?”
“I am not like you. I do not belong in this world.” She shook her head again, slower this time, as if to dispel some notion she could not seem to expunge. “I learned my lesson at that country house party so long ago. Lords and shopkeeper’s daughters do not belong together.”
Of course she did not belong with a milksop like Lambert. Everything in him railed at the notion. But not because Lambert was a viscount and Isabella’s father was a tradesman. Because Lambert did not deserve the sole of her shoe.
“Did you love him?” he asked, the hated question rising from him before he could quell it. He did not want to know the answer. It was none of his affair, and he knew it. And then something far worse occurred to him. “Do you love him?”
“No,” she denied softly, studying him. “I understand that now. Anything I felt for him pales in comparison to the way…”
She had almost betrayed herself. Hope, that incessant fool, came back to life.
“To the way you feel now?” he asked.
“To the way I feel about you,” she confessed, though from the pained expression pinching her face, he could tell the revelation gave her no joy.
“Isabella,” he began, about to tell her he felt strongly for her as well.
But she stopped him, pressing her finger to his lips. “Hush,
