“She considered me an ugly little thing.” That jaw rose, its sharp lines still more pronounced. Shadow and light—she was everything. Sunlight glinted off her glasses. “Don’t think me offended, Hugh. I know she was right. I have seen my reflection often enough to know the truth of it, and I don’t mind. There are other virtues.”
“There are, but—” He ground his teeth together until they ached. Whatever he may have thought about her physical charms, she could not get the wrong idea about his intentions. “You may have your opinions about your appearance, but I will have mine. And I tell you, Chris: I do not find you plain.” His hands still on her shoulders, he leaned in closer. She smelled of jasmine somehow, impossibly. And old books—that musty, almost dusty scent, like parchment and ink. “I will not have my wife speaking about herself in such a way. Do you understand?”
That small, improbably perfect mouth opened a fraction. For the first time, he realized how this must have appeared from the outside: him standing over her, probably looking as though he were intimidating her. Perhaps he was. And the villagers’ greedy eyes would note every movement, searching for more reasons to think him a monster.
He stepped back, and she cleared her throat, adjusting her glasses and looking away. Her cheeks stained a fine pink. “Thank you, Hugh. I—ah—appreciate the sentiment.” Her flushdeepened, and he knew he ought to look away, but he found it impossible. “I have never—this is not something I am accustomed to.”
“Compliments?”
“Well, yes. From a man, in particular.” She swallowed, the tendons in her neck standing in high relief as she drew in a sharp breath. “From my husband.”
“Does that make you uncomfortable?”
“Not as such, but—” Her fingers drew a circle on her palm, as though that sensation grounded her. “What am I to say in return?”
He saw her again in his mind’s eye, the nightgown loose over her shoulders, catching on those peaked nipples.
Her breasts. Why, in the middle of the street, could he not stop thinking about her breasts?
“There’s nothing you need say,” he heard his voice telling her, as though he were separate from his body. Dreamlike, he watched her look up at him.
He saw her smile.
And he knew then he was lost. If he weren’t careful, he would find himself infatuated with his wife, and because of what? Because she had breasts and pretty lips and a smile that made her eyes gleam with shards of shattered light?
Because she had her own past of loneliness, and he knew how that felt?
Because she was the first woman in so long—since the fire—who had dared be this close to him without flinching away? Could that be all?
Regardless, the strength of his desire could not be ignored.
“I won’t stop you from coming to the village in the future,” he said, turning the conversation. “But if you intend to, please let me know.”
“Why? Because you will attend me?”
“If necessary.” Although he swore right there that he would keep out of her way as much as possible. “I need to know you’re safe, Chris.”
Her gaze flicked to his, then away, and although he knew she did not mean her next words with any seductive intent, he could not help the way his libido kicked at the sound of them, unintentionally husky. “Then I can deny Your Grace nothing.”
Chapter Eighteen
Christiana’s fingers shookas she held the thin envelope in her hands. Over morning breakfast, she had received two letters. One from Laura, and the other, the one she stared at now, bore her father’s writing.
If it had her father’s hand scrawling her name, it was not a missive informing her of his untimely passing. Rather, it was probably a plea for money. Her father cared for little else, certainly not her happiness. If her well-being had mattered to him, he would not have sold her to the highest bidder, not even caring to know who said man had been. And thus, he had lost the last of her filial loyalty.
But if that were the case—though thatwasthe case—why did the knowledge of his disinterest hurt?
She took a deep breath and placed the letter to one side. She would deal with that later. Perhaps in her bedchambers, undisturbed by anyone.
“Chris.” Hugh’s voice cut through her daze. “What is it?”
She blinked and looked up, finding him watching her, his eyes very dark. “Hmm?”
“Who sent the letter that made you look like that?”
From the way he spoke, she suspected she knew.
“My father,” she said as calmly as she was able. “It’s of no matter. He can have nothing to say that would be urgent.”