Without thinking—if she’d given it any thought, she would certainly not have touched him—she reached for him. She could feel rather than see his scowl.
“Yes. I do,” he said.
“I’ll curl up on the chair.”
“As I told you before, Grace—you’re a lady. What kind of man would I be if I did not cede the bed to you?”
“A comfortable one.” The words popped off her weary tongue before she could stop them.
To her surprise, he laughed. Something about the hearty sound warmed her heart. He seldom laughed. She’d noticed that from their first meeting. There was always such a somberness about him, it was utterly charming to hear a chuckle erupt through his self-control.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her, and rested his elbows on his knees. “Grace, you’re an enigma.”
He was a fine one to talk. The man was making no sense. “Do you care to explain?”
His fingers wedged through his hair. “You’re highly skilled at deception. It’s your stock in trade. Yet, in some regards, you possess an honesty unlike any woman I’ve ever known.”
“Is that good? Or bad?”
“I haven’t puzzled that out yet.”
“When you do, please notify me of your conclusion.”
He turned to her and stretched out his long, pajama-covered legs over the blanket. Propping himself on one elbow, he peered down at her. The room was nearly dark, but she could sense his expression as he seemed to study her.
“You could drive a man—a logical man who’d long prided himself on his rational approach to life—straight to Bedlam.”
“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” she whispered.
“There’s something about you—something I can’t begin to define…” Gently, he threaded his fingers through her hair. “Relax. Get some sleep. We both need rest.”
Spindles from the headboard pressed into her spine, and she shifted against them. Nibbling her lip—how the habit annoyed her, but there’d be no reining it in now, given the tension that filled her—she looked at him, struggling to see his expression in the faint traces of light.
With a rush of breath, stronger than a sigh, she slung her legs over the edge of the bed. She would not sleep tonight, not with him so very near. Something about the way he approached her as a puzzle to be solved chafed at her like a too-tight lace collar.
She tiptoed to the connecting door. Even Mrs. Carmichael’s snoring wasn’t as bad as trying to pretend his oh-so-logical approach to everything didn’t irk her past the point of sleep.
“You do not need to define me,” she said as her fingers took hold of the latch. “You do not need tosolveme as if I were some sort of riddle.”
To her surprise, he followed her. She turned to face him. She’d expected questions in his gaze, not the look of passion that flared in his eyes.
“Quite true.” His gravelly rasp washed over her. “Sometimes, I think too damned much.”
With that, he tipped up her chin with his fingers. He leaned closer, his breath a sigh against her mouth.
He kissed her.
Tenderness infused the caress, a gentleness she’d crave until she was old and creaky.
Easing away, he met her gaze. Could he read the questions in her eyes?
“Tell me to stop.” An unfamiliar rawness infused his voice.
Her heart thudded against her ribs. “And if I don’t?”
Cradling her chin against his palm, he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers. More demanding. Hungrier. Infused with a primal need.
“I want you, Grace. More than I have any right to.”
