“I was hoping you would,” she replied in a husky voice.
He stared at her as if she were the only woman in the world, and she stared back, her own world reduced to only him. They said nothing, yet they communicated with their eyes, their souls talking silently to one another.
He leaned forward, his body gliding through the water, and he placed a hand on her cheek. His touch was cool against her warm skin, and she leaned into him, placing a delicate kiss on his damp palm. Her heart beat loudly, urging her on in her boldness. With him, this dream man within a dream, it didn’t feel like boldness. It felt natural, like it was all she had ever wanted.
When she turned her head to look at him again, he leaned in. His lips touched hers with the softness of silk. He leaned in further still. His chest, hard and muscular, pressed up against her breasts, and Charlotte moaned into his mouth.
When she blinked awake, she gasped. Her body cried out for the man she knew wasn’t real. Even if she’d allowed him to talk to her the previous day, he would not have been that man in her dreams. She squirmed beneath her blanket, not wanting the tingling sensation to go but too fearful to encourage it to stay, until eventually she lay still and watched the sun rise through her window.
It was barely thirty minutes before she decided to get up. She had never been one for lounging in bed, preferring instead to do something active, and as the last wispy images of her dream faded from memory, she rose from her bed with a sigh and dressed quickly.
It would be the first day since her arrival that she didn’t go to the lake for an early morning swim, but how could she go? She couldn’t risk seeing the poacher again, or whoever he was. The man of her dreams. She wanted to, that secret part of her that still churned with desire, but she knew she couldn’t. She knew it would be a mistake. He wouldn’t be there, she was certain of it, but it just wasn’t something she could risk.
Alas, instead she found her way down the stairs, deciding to take a little breakfast instead. At least she was certain she would be left in peace, given how early it still was. The others in the household seemed not to rise until late into the morning.
When she stepped into the breakfast room, however, there was already someone there. She paused, uncertain. It wasa man, though she couldn’t see much of him for the broadsheet that he held open in front of his face. She considered turning and leaving, not in the mood for conversation. But she hesitated for just a moment too long, for the man cleared his throat and spoke from behind the wall of newspaper, amusement lacing his voice.
“Well, well, sleeping beauty arises early this morning.”
Charlotte turned to look at him, shocked by his words, just in time to see him lower the newspaper and gape at her in horror.
“I... I, goodness, I am sorry, I thought you were someone else.”
In equal shock, Charlotte stared back at him, her mouth hanging open in the most unladylike of manners. It was the man from her dreams turned real. It was the man from the lake, sitting in front of her as if that were entirely normal. In Lord Hurtle’s estate!
And to make matters all the more confounding, he was dressed as a lord and looking several times handsomer than he had the day before. Charlotte raised her hand to fan her reddening cheeks, worried she would swoon.
“What are you doing here?” she managed to ask at exactly the same moment that he uttered the words, “Goodness, it’s you.”
Charlotte’s eyes darted around the room, wanting to land upon him yet avoiding him as much as she could. To look at him would send her swooning yet again, and she didn’t think she could handle any more emotion than already swirled around inside her. She felt the tingling from this morning return to her thighs as flashes of her dream came back to her.
She cleared her throat, suddenly infuriated, and she looked directly at him and marched into the room. She would not be made to feel awkward and uncomfortable, not when she had every right to be there. With her chin in the air, she found a seat opposite him, sat down with aplomb, and motioned to the maid to pour her a cup of tea.
His eyes had not left her, his disbelief coming off him in waves. Charlotte continued to focus on her breakfast, first taking a little toast and then dipping her knife in the marmalade. She scraped it across the toast then put it on her plate. She leaned over for a little ham, wildly conscious of his presence, of his gaze, when he spoke again.
“I didn’t mean to call you sleeping beauty,” he said, the words tumbling out quickly before he yet again cleared his throat .
She glanced up at him, risking a look. She wanted to remain furious, annoyed that this man had intentionally deceived her about his true identity. He hadn’t, of course. She hadn’t allowed him the chance to explain himself at all.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be furious about it, and the way his eyes sparkled made it all the worse. She felt as though he looked into her very soul, as if he could see the dreams she’d had last night. She squirmed and looked down again.
“Do you make a habit of saying such to ladies you do not know, sir?” she asked, her lips pursed in annoyance.
“No,” he snapped defensively. “Of course not. I thought you were…” He sighed, giving up on his line of thought. “Perhaps we ought to start again. Are you a member of this household?”
Charlotte glanced at him again, her eyes flicking to him from under her lashes. She considered rebuffing his question, refusing to answer him, but if he was there, with free reign in the house, he must have been important to Chelsea’s family. And that meant that she was likely to see him again.
“Miss Charlotte Fairchild,” she replied, her focus still entirely on her breakfast. “Best friend to the bride to be, Lady Chelsea Hurtle. And you are?”
She raised her head and looked at him properly, taking in the shape of his face, the squareness of shoulders. A flash of the naked chest from her dream ran through her mind. Would his real chest look similar? Would it feel the same beneath her palms?
“The Duke of Ashbourne,” he said through tight lips. “Alexander Wentworth. Here with one Stewart Stanhope, cousin to the bride.”
Charlotte’s hand paused with her toast halfway to her mouth, and she raised a single eyebrow at him. She had known that Chelsea’s cousin was bringing a friend . She’d even been told that he was a duke. But such a handsome one? No one had told herthat.
“Duke, you say? And there I was thinking you were a poacher on the Hurtles’ land, what with the way you were stalking through the trees.”
“And I thought you a maid, for I have never before seen aladybehave with such little care for prying eyes.”
