But none of those smiles could match this one for sheer luminosity. Her lower lip, usually a deep, plump curve, was stretched wide, and her eyes crinkled a bit at the corners.
“That must be where he’s been living!” Her voice was a study in quiet triumph. “Perhaps he’s there even now—or perhaps someone will know where he’s gone. Oh, Arthur! We needn’t wait for Belvoir’s now—”
He did not know why he did it. Perhaps it was his name, again, on her mouth, setting off a small explosion in the part of his brain that made sensible decisions.
Or perhaps it was the word after his name. The confident, unhesitatingwe.
Whatever the reason, he reached out and touched her cheek.
He felt a bright, fierce little shock as his fingers met her skin, powerful enough to jolt his hand back.
He had half a heartbeat to stare at her in utter bafflement. Had he gone mad? Had she felt it too? It was as if his life had become a sentimental novel—touching her sent electricity sparking through his body; the woman was the kindling to his conflagration—
And then she yelped and clapped a hand to her face.
Oh. He was an idiot. There was no mystical connection instantiated by the collision of their bodies. He had simply given her an electric shock, right there on the smooth skin of her cheek.
“Och, for the love of God,” he said, “I’m sorry. The rug—it collects a charge that way—I shouldn’t have done—”
He stretched his hand back out, placing his fingers over her own.
She made another sound, soft and startled, though he was not quite sure why—he was certain he had not shocked her this time.
“Let me see—”
“Oh, no—I assure you, I’m perfectly well—”
She wrenched her hand free from beneath his, and then suddenly there he was. Exactly as he’d intended moments ago, the tips of his fingers on her skin.
Only now her cheeks were stained with pink, and he bent his head down to take a look at her.
She seemed unmarred. Of course she would be—he had only shocked her, not damaged her in some way.
Yet he could not stop himself from checking.
He wanted to make sure she was all right, that was all. He needed to make sure.
He slid his thumb along her cheekbone. She was surprisingly unfreckled for an ivory-skinned little ginger. Perhaps it was all the ridiculous hats she liked to wear, frivolous and pretty, like her seemingly endless collection of slippers.
Beneath his thumb, her skin was smooth and warm. So delicate—the blood rushed to the place where he touched her, flushing beneath his hand.
Was she like that—everywhere?
He did not mean for his thumb to slip down, but it seemed to move of its own volition. He watched himself cup her jaw. He watched his thumb trace the arc of her lower lip, and then, when she took one trembling breath, he watched himself brush against the corner of her mouth.
He would have thought it was some other man’s hand on her face, except he could feel everything. He could feel the featherlight brush of her quick unsteady breaths. The heat of her skin, the gentle rise of her lower lip. The softness of her body, where his other hand had come to rest at her waist.
He could kiss her. God, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted her mouth under his. He wanted to know if she tasted as sweet and warm as she smelled. He wanted to know if her skin would flush when he sucked at the place where her neck met her shoulder; he wanted to know if his teeth would leave a mark. He wanted her up on the desk, her legs locked around his waist, wanted to kiss her and loose her buttons and touch her and touch her and touch her.
He might have, if she hadn’t taken half a step backward. The edge of her dressing gown brushed against the desk, and there was a faint whispering sound as a stack of Davis’s letters slid to the floor at their feet.
It might as well have been the report of a pistol.
He dropped his hand and backed away, a half step and then a little farther for good measure.
Davis’s letters. Bloody hell, the woman had come here forDavis. She’d been in love with his own damned brother.
Arthur felt suddenly dizzy, almost sick.
