Read Online 0425272095 (R) by Jessica Peterson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jessica Peterson
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don’t mean—I heard of Osbourne’s passing, you see—terribly sorry, he was so young—”
Caroline scoffed. “It’s not that.”
Henry waited for her to explain; when she didn’t, he cleared his throat, and said, “I am sorry. He was a good man.”
She looked away. “He missed you.”
“I missed him.”
A beat of uncomfortable silence passed between them. “I’m sorry, my lady. I can’t—,” he began.
“I know,” she said.
He looked up from his lap. They met eyes. Hers glowed in the low light like opals, dark, unknowable, full. So full and so powerful, her gaze was akin to an assault. Heavens, but he was almost glad he had only one eye; knowing her with both eyes, meeting the assault fully naked and bare, would have slain him more surely than any foe he’d yet encountered.
He looked and she looked and as the heartbeats passed, something moved between them, something that was at once arousing and painful. The amusement in her eyes faded, as did her small smile; her lips fell apart and so did her composure, and he could tell by the rapid rise and fall of her chest that she was struggling to breathe.
She was open before him. She was lovely.
His heart—his everything —felt swollen to twice its size as he looked at her. He wanted to smile at the disheveled, swirling tilt of her hair. He wanted to weep at the hurt in her eyes and in the crease between her brows.
The air rushed out of his lungs to make room for the rising tide of desire, of regret, that moved through him. He was leaning forward in his chair, all but numb to the sharp pain of protest in his bad leg; his cup fell with a clatter to the floor.
Her face. Oh, her face; it seemed impossibly small, impossibly vulnerable. He remembered cradling it in his hands as he’d kissed her that night in the chapel. The desire to run his thumb along the edge of her chin, touch the warm smoothness of her skin, overwhelmed him.
Caroline did not move toward him, but she didn’t back away, either. She sat very still, her gaze watchful and weary, her color deepening as he drew closer. He could smell her perfume, the lilies and that fresh cleanness that was her .
Henry reached for her face. He was about to touch her when she winced against a rush of tears. She stood, abruptly,swiping his fallen teacup from the floor as she did so. He blinked, stunned.
“More wine,” she said. It was less question, more command.
He said nothing. His throat felt tight.
Caroline sidled around the chair to the bureau that was serving double duty as a sideboard. She coaxed the cork from the bottle; wisps of hair, fallen from their pins, trailed down the back of her neck. He watched them move idly in the breeze from the open window.
She set the bottle down on the bureau, suddenly, and placed her hands on either end of its marble top; she sagged against it, her head dipping.
“Caroline.” He was on his feet on an instant and standing behind her. “Caroline, are you unwell?”
She looked over her shoulder. His belly turned over at the expression on her face. Damn it, she was crying.
“Caroline,” he said again.
“Don’t call me that.”
“I’m—I’m sorry, I just—”
She was clutching at her stays then, gasping for air as she turned toward him. “I can’t breathe. Please,” she gasped. “Please, if you could—”
Henry spun her back round, his movements succinct, violent almost, as he tore at the back of her gown with his hands. He felt the sobs tripping in her chest as he tugged free the laces of her corset, coaxing, pulling with his fingers; he winced as her bottom pushed far too invitingly against his erection.
As if the damned thing could give him any more grief. Jesus.
His fingers brushed against the bare skin of her back. He could see the last knobs of her spine rise above the top of her undergarments before sloping into shoulders and neck; the lace edge of her chemise peeked teasingly through the gap in her stays.
Her skin was hot to the
Caroline scoffed. “It’s not that.”
Henry waited for her to explain; when she didn’t, he cleared his throat, and said, “I am sorry. He was a good man.”
She looked away. “He missed you.”
“I missed him.”
A beat of uncomfortable silence passed between them. “I’m sorry, my lady. I can’t—,” he began.
“I know,” she said.
He looked up from his lap. They met eyes. Hers glowed in the low light like opals, dark, unknowable, full. So full and so powerful, her gaze was akin to an assault. Heavens, but he was almost glad he had only one eye; knowing her with both eyes, meeting the assault fully naked and bare, would have slain him more surely than any foe he’d yet encountered.
He looked and she looked and as the heartbeats passed, something moved between them, something that was at once arousing and painful. The amusement in her eyes faded, as did her small smile; her lips fell apart and so did her composure, and he could tell by the rapid rise and fall of her chest that she was struggling to breathe.
She was open before him. She was lovely.
His heart—his everything —felt swollen to twice its size as he looked at her. He wanted to smile at the disheveled, swirling tilt of her hair. He wanted to weep at the hurt in her eyes and in the crease between her brows.
The air rushed out of his lungs to make room for the rising tide of desire, of regret, that moved through him. He was leaning forward in his chair, all but numb to the sharp pain of protest in his bad leg; his cup fell with a clatter to the floor.
Her face. Oh, her face; it seemed impossibly small, impossibly vulnerable. He remembered cradling it in his hands as he’d kissed her that night in the chapel. The desire to run his thumb along the edge of her chin, touch the warm smoothness of her skin, overwhelmed him.
Caroline did not move toward him, but she didn’t back away, either. She sat very still, her gaze watchful and weary, her color deepening as he drew closer. He could smell her perfume, the lilies and that fresh cleanness that was her .
Henry reached for her face. He was about to touch her when she winced against a rush of tears. She stood, abruptly,swiping his fallen teacup from the floor as she did so. He blinked, stunned.
“More wine,” she said. It was less question, more command.
He said nothing. His throat felt tight.
Caroline sidled around the chair to the bureau that was serving double duty as a sideboard. She coaxed the cork from the bottle; wisps of hair, fallen from their pins, trailed down the back of her neck. He watched them move idly in the breeze from the open window.
She set the bottle down on the bureau, suddenly, and placed her hands on either end of its marble top; she sagged against it, her head dipping.
“Caroline.” He was on his feet on an instant and standing behind her. “Caroline, are you unwell?”
She looked over her shoulder. His belly turned over at the expression on her face. Damn it, she was crying.
“Caroline,” he said again.
“Don’t call me that.”
“I’m—I’m sorry, I just—”
She was clutching at her stays then, gasping for air as she turned toward him. “I can’t breathe. Please,” she gasped. “Please, if you could—”
Henry spun her back round, his movements succinct, violent almost, as he tore at the back of her gown with his hands. He felt the sobs tripping in her chest as he tugged free the laces of her corset, coaxing, pulling with his fingers; he winced as her bottom pushed far too invitingly against his erection.
As if the damned thing could give him any more grief. Jesus.
His fingers brushed against the bare skin of her back. He could see the last knobs of her spine rise above the top of her undergarments before sloping into shoulders and neck; the lace edge of her chemise peeked teasingly through the gap in her stays.
Her skin was hot to the
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