Caitlin remained on the sofa, beside Alice, and kept her gaze fixed on the apothecary’s face as she and Millie, on Alice’s other side, ran through the herbs they’d managed to acquire during their visit to Alice’s friend in Northampton.
“She’s found an excellent source of angelica,” Alice said, “which is good news for Nessie—she likes to use it in her cakes.”
Smiling encouragingly, Caitlin pretended to be interested, but in reality, her attention was locked on the tall figure sipping tea by the fireplace.
Her overactive senses informed her that his gaze had been resting on her for several minutes, but she refused to glance in his direction.
Eventually, he finished his tea, returned his cup to the trolley, and with a general smile and nod, left the room.
She breathed a touch easier.
I need to keep my head.
The little voice in her mind was full of sensible directions, but less helpful in explaining how she was to achieve its promptings.
I need to keep my place here.
At least for another few years. She couldn’t afford to become overly sensitive—missish and mawkish—over him. She couldn’t leave. Where would she go?
Of course, there was no viable answer to that, none that would suit her anywhere near as well as being the chatelaine of Bellamy Hall.
Gregory looked down the dining table at his chatelaine-cum-steward and fought back a scowl.
Not solely because she was avoiding him—although as far as his inner wolf was concerned, that was bad enough—but because, despite his most earnest efforts, he couldn’t haul his senses from their fixation on her.
He’d never been so afflicted. Ladies were as ladies went; a single, specific lady should have no claim on his awareness, not in the all-consuming way Caitlin Fergusson captured every iota of his attention.
He could pretend otherwise, of course—he was a past master at social pretense—but even while he chatted with Percy and Vernon, who were flanking him at the table that evening, his every sense remained acutely aware of each and every little move Caitlin made.
That afternoon, when she’d landed in his arms—or rather, when he’d hauled her against him and locked her there—the wolf inside him had exulted. In common with his peers, he’d found his sexual desires easy to sate over his years in the ton. More recently, that side of him had grown strangely bored with what was on offer, resulting in a more restless questing, driven by a need for…something more. Something beyond mere sexual gratification.
He couldn’t define what that something was, but the instant he’d set eyes on Caitlin Fergusson, his inner self had been convinced that she held the answer to his undefined need.
When he’d had her in his arms, her soft, feminine body and luscious lips had lured him, and he’d wanted nothing more than to seize.
He very nearly had; the impulse had almost overridden his usually ironclad control.
The strength of his reaction had shaken him, but the power in it had further honed his senses, and that underlying impulse—his underlying need—hadn’t faded or even dimmed beneath his reasserted control.
Consequently, while outwardly relaxed, as he chatted and smiled with the others, he watched Caitlin and brooded.
His fixation wasn’t going to go away; of that, he was now certain. Worse, it had already reached an intensity that made it impossible to ignore.
That meant he was going to have to do something about it.
He couldn’t continue in this vein, constantly being so highly aware and so very tense around her; he was going to have to move forward in some way.
How?
He’d established beyond all doubt that he needed her help in managing the estate, let alone the household. He couldn’t afford to offend her, and the very last thing he wanted to do was to make her uncomfortable to the point she left.
He knew—had known from the first—that he affected her. What he didn’t know was in what way. Was she attracted or made uneasy?
That afternoon…for several seconds, he’d thought that she was as deeply, fundamentally ensnared as he, but then she’d apologized and, far too calmly, gone about her business.
Then, during afternoon tea, she’d sent a strong signal by essentially cutting all contact.
Or so it had seemed.
