Chapter Seventeen
Grace stared down at the page of her novel, making an effort to appear as though she were reading rather than spying on her pretend husband. Actually, spying wasn’t the right word, was it? Ogling was probably far more accurate. Wouldn’t that be what one would call the way her eyes drank in the sight of his unclothed chest.
And oh, my, what a chest it was. It wasn’t as if she had not seen him before. But their one and only encounter had been at night, under cover of darkness, with only the faint rays of an oil lamp to provide illumination. But this morning, sunlight kissed each muscular contour of his chest, defined every sinew.
His skin had been warm against hers, not quite like satin, yet not quite rough. That subtle difference in texture had intrigued her.
So many differences between them. Between their bodies. Between their characters and their lives.
What had come over her? It wasn’t like her to be so interested in a man for himself, and not what he could offer her. In her life, a man might be a source of information. He might even provide an unwitting distraction while Aunt Thelma helped herself to a hostess’s ruby ear fobs or a sawbuck or two from an overfull money clip. But these feelings of wanting—a yearning to simply touch a man, to experience his warmth and his vitality—were foreign. She wanted toknowHarrison. The feel of him. The sound of his voice when it was husky with passion or when it was gravel edged with the remnants of sleep. How he wanted to live out his days.
She longed to understand what was in his heart.
All of these thoughts and yearnings frustrated her. They served no purpose. Yet, she could not deny them.
This craving to know Harrison as a man, the good, the bad, and everything in between, was a part of her now.
Quite possibly, it always would be.
She sighed, so softly he did not seem to notice. What had come over her? She’d be a fool to embrace this gentle madness.
Was it the kiss in the carriage, the simple, tender caress the night before? She’d done quite well at keeping her distance before he’d claimed her lips. Like a match to kindling, that kiss was all it had taken to reignite the hunger she’d tried so hard to convince herself no longer existed.
But now, that need was stronger.
As was the desire to provoke a reaction from him. He exhibited a coolness when they were alone, a forced reserve, as if he were unaffected by her nearness.
She knew better.
When he’d kissed her, he’d wanted her to respond to his touch. She’d seen that truth in his eyes before his lips had claimed hers.
A small smile tugged at her mouth. An intriguing thought, but an oh-so-foolish one.
Perhaps she’d even the score.
The notion was misguided. Slightly dangerous.
But far too tempting to dismiss out of hand.
She’d tread lightly. She’d test the waters.
After all, it wasn’t as if he were a dangerous man. He’d go no further than she wished. In her heart, she trusted that much about him.
She set the book aside and stretched out the legs she’d tucked under her. Her bare toes sank into the plush pile of the rug beneath her feet.
“A question occurs to me, dearhusband.”
She thought she heard him sigh, but she couldn’t be sure. He folded his arms over his chest. “Why do I feel like I should brace myself?”
Instinct, most likely.Of course, she didn’t dare voice the thought.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she teased. “I thought Raibert was the thespian among us.”
“Believe me, Grace, I do not have a theatrical bone in my body.” His mouth flattened to a humorless line, even as his expression grew more intrigued. “I can see it in your eyes. What kind of scheme are you concocting now?”
“You don’t trust me. I’m wounded.” She feigned a pout.
He hiked a brow. “Should I?”
