She’d seen it. Felt it.
And she’d come to recognize when he felt the need to push those things back into hiding. Like last night in the carriage. Now that she’d had time to think on it without her own feelings clouding her perception, she felt certain he’d responded in the way he had because he was afraid.
She was here now, outside his door, because she’d decided only one of them could be afraid at a time.
With a rush of purpose, she reached for the doorknob and opened the door. Though she acknowledged too late that she probably should have knocked, she was infinitely glad she didn’t or she might have missed witnessing the scene before her.
Mason sat on the floor, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his back resting against the solid mahogany corner post of his bed. He wore only his breeches and his hair was loose about his shoulders. The uncertain firelight flickering in the grate across the room made the broad planes and dark shadows of his muscled form appear almost mythical in their proportions. His body looked to be made of stone, as did the line of his jaw and the carved lines of his lips.
When he looked up at her, his gaze was undeniably hard. And quietly ravenous. Yet buried beneath the simmering ferocity was a silent, carefully concealed fear.
After closing the door behind her, she started forward with her chin lifted in confidence. But as she drew closer to his immoveable form, the flutter of uncertainty in her core grew stronger until it brought her to a stop. She’d thought she knew exactly what to do. But facing him now, in the silence of his bedroom, with the intention of forcing him to admit there was something more between them—she felt at a sudden loss.
She shifted her attention to the papers strewn about on the carpet beside him. Several rested in his lap while he held one in his large hand. Angling her head, she tried to see what they were. And when she did, her breath caught.
They were sketches. Beautiful sketches.
Rendered in sweeping charcoal lines, careful details, and soft shading. Every image she could see held an emotion all its own. In Claire’s sweet round face, she saw hope and sadness and the deepest love. Frederick’s dark gaze echoed with a quiet, intelligent purpose that captured him perfectly.
Avoiding a glance at Mason—difficult when his presence exuded such tension—she continued forward and lowered herself to her knees. Leaning forward, she picked up the nearest sketch.
It was of a woman. She was turned away from the artist so her face wasn’t shown, but a great deal of care had gone into the elegant arching lines of her slim back, naked but for the long, tousled braid. Another drawing showed the same woman turned to the side, her face in partial profile, her hair pinned to her crown in a loose chignon, soft tendril brushing her nape and jaw.
Katherine’s stomach tightened. They were images of her. Several, in fact. In various poses, but in almost all of them, she was turned at least partially away.
While she examined the drawings, Mason remained still, his body taut. Finally lifting her gaze to his, she found his focus trained intently on her, but the look in his eyes was unreadable.
Katherine eased closer to him until her hip rested against the side of his knee. She could see his pulse beating wildly in the side of his throat. When she reached for the sketch in his hand, his brows lowered, but he released it to her with a low sound.
In this one, she was facing forward. Her hair framed her face and shoulders in lush waves, her lips were parted in a sultry smile, and her eyes were heavy lidded. She looked like she’d just been kissed. Deeply.
Heat and longing rushed through her body.
Several things came to mind that she wanted to say. Things she should say. Questions and declarations and so much more.
Instead, she said nothing.
Gathering all the sketches, she set them aside in a neat pile. Then she rose up on her knees. Gathering the material of her robe and nightdress in her hands, she held his hard, green gaze with hers and boldly positioned herself astride his lap.
The breath left his chest in a harsh puff—as though he’d been holding it in and couldn’t anymore—and his head fell back against the bedpost as he closed his eyes.
He didn’t reach for her as she wanted. Didn’t use those large, strong hands to grasp her hips or cover her aching breasts. Instead, he fisted them at his sides, pressing his knuckles down into the plush carpet.
For a moment, she feared he was rejecting her.
But then she glanced at her image on top of the stack of drawings—the soft smile of welcome he’d drawn on her lips—and she knew his resistance was about something else.
Settling her weight atop his thighs, she squeezed her knees against his hips. As her gaze roamed over the handsome angles of his face, she released the tie of her robe and allowed it to fall down her arms to pool around her hips and over his legs. Then she slowly slid her hands up the surface of his chest, then his thick neck to cradle his jaw. She could feel the muscles bunch and release beneath her fingers as she leaned forward, pressing her belly then her breasts to his hard body. When her lips were a breath away from his, she whispered, “Look at me, Mason.”
A narrowed gaze met hers. It was filled with glittering fire and intricate need.
With deliberate care and gentleness, she placed her mouth to his. A soft press. Then a caressing brush back and forth. It was tender and light
