coming within inches of her.
“I care enough. Always have.” A slight tilt of his mouth cut a crease in his cheek. Warmth trickled into Bea’s veins. She didn’t care for his teasing, but his smile made her want to laugh and cry at once, filling her with sweet longing and fear that it would all disappear, that he would finally find another lady he could love, cease visiting York, and she would never see that smile again.
Her pulse raced, but she smiled back. She could never resist his good humor, especially now, seeing it for the first time since Thomas told them about Iversly .
Tip’s eyes took on a peculiar glint, the same she’d spied earlier in the parlor and again at dinner.
“You like this,” he said.
Bea’s heart turned over. She liked standing in the corridor with him alone in the middle of the night? Most assuredly. Like a foolish, dream-starved girl.
“This?” she managed to breathe.
“The ghost story.”
Oh .
“It is not a story. It is real.”
“I still cannot believe it, yet I feel deuced foolish not to have realized it sooner.” He ran his hand through his dark locks around to the back of his neck. The gesture was so unconscious, so boyish and manly at once, it sent a delicious ripple through Bea. The corridor seemed very warm and close.
“It’s not your fault. Who would have believed this sort of thing could truly happen?”
“You did.” His tone did not accuse. It sounded oddly bewildered, and his eyes looked bright.
“Well, Thomas wrote—”
“You wanted to believe it, didn’t you? You wanted the ghost to be real, and you’re happy that he is. Aren’t you?” He looked at her so fixedly, as though he hoped she would deny it.
She could not deny it, not even for him. She’d had so few adventures in her life. None , in truth. She simply could not regret this one, however horrifying it might seem to a rational person. She may as well admit it to him. She was fairly certain he wouldn’t tell anyone, especially not Mama; he already knew her nasty little predilection for darkly dramatic prose.
Cheeks hotter than ever, she tightened her arms and met his regard directly.
“I did hope he would be real, and I wanted to be able to help. I cannot imagine a more exciting activity to be engaged in just now.”
“I can.” Tip’s voice sounded rough.
Her eyes shot wide. “What?”
He looked even odder than before, his eyes intense, like emeralds glinting from within a shadow. He put his palm on the stone behind her head and leaned in.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. They had never stood this close, not even while dancing, and that was years ago. He seemed so large from only a few inches away, so masculine and broad, his chest a wall of heady possibility right before her. If she unwound her arms she could touch him, place her palm on his coat and feel his body that looked so firm and powerful, as she had wanted to do for years. Longed to do.
Her breaths shortened. She fumbled behind her for the door latch. “I—I think I will turn in now.”
Tip’s eyes seemed to shimmer. “Not.” His breath feathered across her brow. “Just.” He bent his head. “Yet.”
His lips brushed hers.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bea melted. His lips barely lingered, a brief caress of warm, wonderful heat that stole into her, twined between her lips and across her breasts to explode in unruly sizzles all through her middle and, wickedly, between her legs where she always seemed to grow hot when she fantasized about him kissing her.
But this was not a fantasy. It was spectacularly, miraculously real. A sigh escaped her, so light she possibly imagined it.
He stepped back abruptly, blinking several times and staring at her in obvious bemusement.
“I should—” he said haltingly, “—should go.”
She nodded. Her lips tingled. Her entire body tingled. She tilted forward into the corridor, attracted like a magnet to his pole. They could write it on her gravestone like that:
“I care enough. Always have.” A slight tilt of his mouth cut a crease in his cheek. Warmth trickled into Bea’s veins. She didn’t care for his teasing, but his smile made her want to laugh and cry at once, filling her with sweet longing and fear that it would all disappear, that he would finally find another lady he could love, cease visiting York, and she would never see that smile again.
Her pulse raced, but she smiled back. She could never resist his good humor, especially now, seeing it for the first time since Thomas told them about Iversly .
Tip’s eyes took on a peculiar glint, the same she’d spied earlier in the parlor and again at dinner.
“You like this,” he said.
Bea’s heart turned over. She liked standing in the corridor with him alone in the middle of the night? Most assuredly. Like a foolish, dream-starved girl.
“This?” she managed to breathe.
“The ghost story.”
Oh .
“It is not a story. It is real.”
“I still cannot believe it, yet I feel deuced foolish not to have realized it sooner.” He ran his hand through his dark locks around to the back of his neck. The gesture was so unconscious, so boyish and manly at once, it sent a delicious ripple through Bea. The corridor seemed very warm and close.
“It’s not your fault. Who would have believed this sort of thing could truly happen?”
“You did.” His tone did not accuse. It sounded oddly bewildered, and his eyes looked bright.
“Well, Thomas wrote—”
“You wanted to believe it, didn’t you? You wanted the ghost to be real, and you’re happy that he is. Aren’t you?” He looked at her so fixedly, as though he hoped she would deny it.
She could not deny it, not even for him. She’d had so few adventures in her life. None , in truth. She simply could not regret this one, however horrifying it might seem to a rational person. She may as well admit it to him. She was fairly certain he wouldn’t tell anyone, especially not Mama; he already knew her nasty little predilection for darkly dramatic prose.
Cheeks hotter than ever, she tightened her arms and met his regard directly.
“I did hope he would be real, and I wanted to be able to help. I cannot imagine a more exciting activity to be engaged in just now.”
“I can.” Tip’s voice sounded rough.
Her eyes shot wide. “What?”
He looked even odder than before, his eyes intense, like emeralds glinting from within a shadow. He put his palm on the stone behind her head and leaned in.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. They had never stood this close, not even while dancing, and that was years ago. He seemed so large from only a few inches away, so masculine and broad, his chest a wall of heady possibility right before her. If she unwound her arms she could touch him, place her palm on his coat and feel his body that looked so firm and powerful, as she had wanted to do for years. Longed to do.
Her breaths shortened. She fumbled behind her for the door latch. “I—I think I will turn in now.”
Tip’s eyes seemed to shimmer. “Not.” His breath feathered across her brow. “Just.” He bent his head. “Yet.”
His lips brushed hers.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bea melted. His lips barely lingered, a brief caress of warm, wonderful heat that stole into her, twined between her lips and across her breasts to explode in unruly sizzles all through her middle and, wickedly, between her legs where she always seemed to grow hot when she fantasized about him kissing her.
But this was not a fantasy. It was spectacularly, miraculously real. A sigh escaped her, so light she possibly imagined it.
He stepped back abruptly, blinking several times and staring at her in obvious bemusement.
“I should—” he said haltingly, “—should go.”
She nodded. Her lips tingled. Her entire body tingled. She tilted forward into the corridor, attracted like a magnet to his pole. They could write it on her gravestone like that:
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