Their gazes locked, held, then her lids fell on a soft sigh.
On the subject of desire, they understood each other perfectly.
Two
Be damned if I know.
He’d lied, of course. He did know. Had known, even then.
It seemed he was indeed damned.
Oddly, he didn’t feel the least bothered. The only impulse riding him now was one of impatience.
Over breakfast, he relived the previous evening’s interlude. He’d been tempted to take her then and there—to make her his beyond all question—regardless of any notions of propriety. She’d been willing, he even more so. And he’d been perfectly willing to marry her thereafter.
What had held him back, drawn him back from the brink, was the knowledge she was so much an innocent, so naive in that sphe
re, that passion might have swept her away before she’d realized the true nature of what it was that so surprisingly lay between them.
Where it had come from, when it had grown, he had no idea. It simply was; somehow life had shaped them like lock and key.
A memory, a long-ago conversation, resurfaced in his mind. He, Luc Ashford, and Martin Fulbridge had been lolling late one night in some library, alone and well supplied with good brandy. Somehow, the subject of when the other two had recognized their state—the state that had impelled them to marriage—had arisen. Martin had said the realization had dawned slowly, over some weeks, until it had been impossible to ignore, but then Martin had not previously known Amanda. Luc, however, had known Amelia for much the same length of time Reggie had known Anne, and in the same vein of familial friendship; Luc had confessed he’d suddenly—in a flash of understanding—simply known.
Just as Reggie, now, simply knew. It was not a matter of a question and an answer, of an answer that was logically the best fit, but of a reality that needed no further justification. It simply was.
Sitting back, he sipped his coffee and glanced consideringly about the room. The small house in Curzon Street was a perfectly acceptable address to which to bring a new wife. His affairs were in order—there was no impediment to moving quickly in the direction his impatience was pushing him.
He wondered how Luc, Anne’s guardian, would react to his request; lips lifting, he had to admit he was looking forward to finding out.
But first…
He’d thought, last night, that Anne had understood. That, despite being as surprised as he, she’d recognized what had flared between them for what it was. Yet on the subject of the relationships that might exist between male and female within the ton, he knew she was inexperienced and naive. Even recognizing what was between them, she still might not see what was in his mind.
Might not be prepared to agree.
He knew far too much of women, tonnish ladies especially, to take her acceptance for granted. Best to tread warily, at least until he’d confirmed her views, her understanding.
Confirmed she returned his regard.
Impatience sank its spurs deep. She was twenty-six, no giddy young girl; he was thirty-two—they were both too old to have any interest in games. Too old not to seize the unexpected opportunity. Too old to dither and waste time.
Jaw firming, he set down his cup, rose, settled his coat, straightened his sleeves, and headed for the door.
He’d hoped to find her at home, but on answering his knock, Leighton, the young butler at Calverton House, his own surprise showing, informed him Miss Anne had left with Lady Calverton on her round of morning calls.
“Did her ladyship intend to call at Elderby House?” Reggie asked, as if intending to do so himself and wondering if their paths would cross there.
“Lady Elderby wasn’t on her ladyship’s list, sir. Would you care to leave a message?”
Reggie favored him with a mild smile. “No, no.” His smile hardened as he turned away. “No doubt I’ll catch up with them in the park.”
He did; as he’d foreseen, Anne was more interested in spotting Imogen Caverlock than in the sprigs of the ton whose eyes she’d caught.
Presuming on their familial acquaintance, he marched boldly up to the Calverton landau the instant it halted on the verge. After exchanging greetings with her mother, who was intrigued but too shrewd to let it show by word or deed, he turned to Anne.
And realized in the instant their eyes touched that she’d tensed, waiting—not quite panicking— wondering what he would say, what he was thinking—how he saw their last meeting, and all it had encompassed.
Impossible to tell her there, with half the ton looking on.