she’d been reading. Inexplicably shy, she looked down for a moment, and then chanced another peek at him while he was getting settled.
The Marquess of Asheburton was different from all the men of her acquaintance. Tall and powerfully built, he exuded an aura of barely leashed strength and subdued fury. Every time she was near him, she felt as though she had to hold her breath, almost as though something spectacular were about to happen. It was the same feeling she got when a storm was about to break. The very air was charged with crackling tension, soaked with energy. It made her ache for . . . She frowned. For what?
Lachlan stretched out his legs and leaned back on his hands. His gaze roved the garden before returning to settle on the girl who sat beside him, her legs curled beneath herskirts, her wide blue eyes locked on his face. The moment his gaze found hers, which was filled with an odd yearning, he was lost.
Charity held her breath and then let it out slowly on a single word. “Gray,” she whispered, unaware that she’d spoken. His lips curved in a soft smile. Something lurched inside her, and she felt the odd knot of tension that had settled in her midsection unfurl and spread outward, warm, liquid, and comforting. Because, when the Marquess of Asheburton smiled, the world fell away beneath her. His face, normally stern and cold and forbidding, seemingly chiseled from icy granite, thawed and became a visage of sheer male beauty. His eyes melted from a flinty silver to a soft pewter.
The book she’d been holding slipped from her grasp and landed on his hand, causing him to glance down and break the spell. He picked it up and handed the volume back to her. “I’m afraid you’ve lost your place, Miss Ackerly.”
“Oh,” she said, her voice a bit dreamy. Her eyes widened. “Oh!” she repeated, and composed herself. “I shall find it easily enough later.” She took the book. “How clumsy of me. I hope I didn’t hurt your hand.”
The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled as his smile broadened. “No,” he assured her, a tinge of amusement in his voice. “I’m quite uninjured.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Why do you not have a Scottish accent, my lord?”
“A couple reasons,” he replied. “First, my mother refused to allow it, although my father’s accent was decided and pronounced. Second, I was educated by an Englishman.” He met her eyes. “My accent manifests occasionally. Typically when I am tired or provoked.”
Charity cast about wildly in her mind, searching for a topic that would preserve the unspoken truce that seemedto have arisen between them. “Do you have plans this evening, my lord?” she blurted, then felt her face grow warm. Now it would seem as though she were prodding him to offer his escort.
Sure enough, Lachlan’s smile faltered. “Why, yes. As a matter of fact I’d hoped to ask if you would care to accompany me to the Upshaws’ ball.”
Charity’s blush intensified, giving her alabaster cheeks a becoming peach glow, and causing the aquamarine color of her eyes to intensify. She closed them and pressed a hand against her hot cheek. “I’m so sorry, my lord,” she said, stifling a groan. “How unutterably rude and leading of me.” She covered her mouth with her other hand in an effort to stem the tide of embarrassing statements pouring forth, and stared downward, no longer able to meet his eyes.
Lachlan thought she was adorable. He sat up straight and reached for the hand that was covering her mouth, pulled it away, and then crooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. “It really was my intention to come here and ask you to join me this evening, Miss Ackerly. Will you?” His voice was husky and low. “Please?”
Charity held her breath and leaned toward him, drawn by some force she couldn’t explain. She looked up with vulnerable eyes, her lips slightly parted, soft, open, and inviting. She nodded agreement.
Lachlan
The Marquess of Asheburton was different from all the men of her acquaintance. Tall and powerfully built, he exuded an aura of barely leashed strength and subdued fury. Every time she was near him, she felt as though she had to hold her breath, almost as though something spectacular were about to happen. It was the same feeling she got when a storm was about to break. The very air was charged with crackling tension, soaked with energy. It made her ache for . . . She frowned. For what?
Lachlan stretched out his legs and leaned back on his hands. His gaze roved the garden before returning to settle on the girl who sat beside him, her legs curled beneath herskirts, her wide blue eyes locked on his face. The moment his gaze found hers, which was filled with an odd yearning, he was lost.
Charity held her breath and then let it out slowly on a single word. “Gray,” she whispered, unaware that she’d spoken. His lips curved in a soft smile. Something lurched inside her, and she felt the odd knot of tension that had settled in her midsection unfurl and spread outward, warm, liquid, and comforting. Because, when the Marquess of Asheburton smiled, the world fell away beneath her. His face, normally stern and cold and forbidding, seemingly chiseled from icy granite, thawed and became a visage of sheer male beauty. His eyes melted from a flinty silver to a soft pewter.
The book she’d been holding slipped from her grasp and landed on his hand, causing him to glance down and break the spell. He picked it up and handed the volume back to her. “I’m afraid you’ve lost your place, Miss Ackerly.”
“Oh,” she said, her voice a bit dreamy. Her eyes widened. “Oh!” she repeated, and composed herself. “I shall find it easily enough later.” She took the book. “How clumsy of me. I hope I didn’t hurt your hand.”
The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled as his smile broadened. “No,” he assured her, a tinge of amusement in his voice. “I’m quite uninjured.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Why do you not have a Scottish accent, my lord?”
“A couple reasons,” he replied. “First, my mother refused to allow it, although my father’s accent was decided and pronounced. Second, I was educated by an Englishman.” He met her eyes. “My accent manifests occasionally. Typically when I am tired or provoked.”
Charity cast about wildly in her mind, searching for a topic that would preserve the unspoken truce that seemedto have arisen between them. “Do you have plans this evening, my lord?” she blurted, then felt her face grow warm. Now it would seem as though she were prodding him to offer his escort.
Sure enough, Lachlan’s smile faltered. “Why, yes. As a matter of fact I’d hoped to ask if you would care to accompany me to the Upshaws’ ball.”
Charity’s blush intensified, giving her alabaster cheeks a becoming peach glow, and causing the aquamarine color of her eyes to intensify. She closed them and pressed a hand against her hot cheek. “I’m so sorry, my lord,” she said, stifling a groan. “How unutterably rude and leading of me.” She covered her mouth with her other hand in an effort to stem the tide of embarrassing statements pouring forth, and stared downward, no longer able to meet his eyes.
Lachlan thought she was adorable. He sat up straight and reached for the hand that was covering her mouth, pulled it away, and then crooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. “It really was my intention to come here and ask you to join me this evening, Miss Ackerly. Will you?” His voice was husky and low. “Please?”
Charity held her breath and leaned toward him, drawn by some force she couldn’t explain. She looked up with vulnerable eyes, her lips slightly parted, soft, open, and inviting. She nodded agreement.
Lachlan
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