Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

drew back, lifted from her, then slumped beside her. Only to recall that they lay on top of the covers.

Gathering his strength, he rolled off the bed, loosened the covers, eased them from beneath her, dragged them down, then climbed beside her and drew the sheets and coverlet up, flicking them over them both.

She murmured and turned to him, snuggled her way into his arms, then sank back into slumber.

Through the dimness he studied her face but could read nothing in her relaxed features.

He didn’t want to think of what had passed between them, the depth, the connection. . the revelation. They’d gone far beyond the mundane, the usual, the customary; they’d touched, breached, some other plane.

Something he was certain she couldn’t have failed to see, to recognize; they’d been there together, very much hand in hand.

Which meant that all should now be well, that she would have no further quibbles over accepting his suit.

Closing his eyes, he felt his lips curve. He slid into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Eighteen

Heather!” Stepping out under the archway from the great hall, Breckenridge started after Heather as she walked down a corridor leading deeper into the manor. At his hail, she halted, turned, and smiled.

Something inside him clenched at the sight. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this nervous, this on edge.

He forced an easy smile and continued toward her. Aside from them, the corridor was deserted; that wouldn’t last.

They hadn’t had a chance to speak that morning; they’d exchanged not one word about the night. He’d woken in good time but had lain there like a dope and just watched her sleep. By the time she’d stirred, stretched like a cat, opened her eyes, and smiled — very much as she was smiling now, with that glow that warmed him filling her eyes — it had been too late for anything; she’d had to rush to get back to her room before everyone and the twins had been about.

Breakfast about the high table with everyone in attendance had been no place to broach the subject of matrimony, regardless of how confident he was that she would, now, accept him. After last night, how could she not?

She’d been so passionate, and had matched him so well, had been the female reflection of all he was as a male, her actions, her need, mirroring all he’d felt, that he’d dropped every last shield and simply been.

A terrifying freedom. One he’d grasped with all he had in him, but now, in the aftermath, in the cool morning light, the sense of vulnerability, of having said too much even though he’d uttered not one word, haunted him.

Rode like a specter at the edge of his vision and threatened him.

At least she couldn’t have missed his revelation. His truth.

Lips still curved, he halted before her, looked down into her soft blue-gray eyes.

Heather met his gaze and felt her heart literally swell. This was the moment; expectation cinched tight.

She’d spent every minute since she’d left his room trying to imagine what he might say. She no longer needed any declaration, just a word, a touch — any allusion to what they’d shared last night. One word, even a look, would do, would serve to acknowledge their new reality. Then they could move forward, into their new life.

Fighting to keep her anticipation reined, not to jig with impatience, or clutch at the pendant between her breasts, when he didn’t speak, she prompted, “I have to join Algaria in the herb garden — I told her I would yesterday, and she truly does need my help.”

Something shifted — behind his eyes, a subtle shift in his usual difficult-to-read expression. Gaze lowering, he inclined his head, the movement redolent with his habitual grace. “Yes, of course. I won’t keep you.” He hesitated, then diffidently, almost offhandedly, said, “I was just wondering about our return to the capital. We’ll need to announce our betrothal and face down the inevitable brouhaha.”

He paused.

Still waiting for her word, she didn’t respond.

Drawing breath, he met her eyes, went on, “I should draft a notice for the Gazette—I should probably send that ahead of us, to set the scene, as it were. We should also send letters to our families — they’ll need to be prepared.”

He fell silent, waited.

Heather knew her expression had frozen — to hide the eruption of anger that was searing through her. She felt like screaming.

What did she have to do to get him to admit he loved her?

He did; after last night, she was sure he did. .

She inwardly rocked, felt as if the ground beneath her feet literally shifted even though she stood on solid stone.

He was an acknowledged expert. . could last night have been a sham, a pretence, something he’d concocted to satisfy her? Knowing what she wanted to see in him, had he simply given her that, even though it hadn’t been true?

Had last night simply been another conquest to him, albeit with a different goal?

She’d made her declaration first — her wordless confession of her love for him. Had he then pulled the wool over her eyes?

Hurt, deeper than any she’d ever felt, sliced through her.

She blinked, looked into his eyes — desperation rising, searched but couldn’t see.

Anything.

Any glimmer of the love she’d expected to find shining there.

That didn’t mean the damned man didn’t feel it — he always kept his emotions so contained. . but the purpose of last night had been to reassure him, to encourage and allow him to give her just one word, one hint, however oblique, that he loved her.

If he didn’t. . she’d already gone over that argument. She couldn’t go forward without any acknowledgment.

He’d grown uncharacteristically restive. Now he shifted. “Think about it and let me know later.” He half turned to walk away.

“No — wait.” As he turned back, jaw firming, she tipped up her chin. “You’re laboring under a misapprehension. I haven’t yet accepted any proposal — indeed, none has been made — certainly not in any form of words I find acceptable.”

His face, his eyes, hardened. She drew breath, held his gaze, and strove to make his options crystal clear. “You know what I want. Until you give me the assurance I need, I won’t be agreeing to any wedding, especially not with you.”

She didn’t wait to hear what he thought of that. Swinging around, she stalked off, down the corridor to the side door.

Rooted to the spot, Breckenridge watched her go. Watched, and felt his chest slowly constrict. Tighten until he couldn’t breathe.

Last night he’d done what she’d wanted and exposed his heart — and that still wasn’t enough for her?

Especially not with you. He felt like he’d been kicked in the gut; he’d heard those words before.

Of course, last time — fifteen years ago — Helen Maitland had laughed as she’d uttered them.

Swallowing a vicious curse, his face like stone, he turned and walked away.

Just as he had fifteen years before.

He’d left Helen Maitland without a backward glance.

Heather Cynster was a different matter.

A different female.