Oh, just the thought tore at her soul and made her want to weep.
Celia sat at the vanity while Jean brushed and braided her hair. She’d already shed her gown in exchange for her warmest linen nightgown. She wanted to go to him. He deserved an apology for her outburst. But she was preparing for bed, certainly not ready for more agonizing conversations with Damien.
“Jean, could you please fetch my silk robe?”
“Yes, my lady.” Jean tied off the end of Celia’s braid and went to the foot of the bed, where her cream silk robe lay.
Celia stood and took the robe from Jean, slipping it on with a quick efficiency that filled her with resolve. Tying the belt tight about her waist, she turned and smiled weakly at her maid. “You may go, Jean. Thank you.”
Jean nodded and backed toward the door. “Good evening, my lady.”
“Good evening.”
The moment the door shut, Celia went to the vanity and caught her reflection in the mirror. She was completely laid bare. None of the usual trappings and fripperies could improve her tonight. No baubles or fine silk gowns, no corset to emphasize her curves. There would be no flirtation or veiled comments. No putting words in his mouth either.
Tonight she was plain Celia. And she would go to Damien to confess her heart.
Hopefully he wouldn’t turn her away.
Chapter Five
Damien pouted like an insolent child. He slouched in the wingback chair facing the crackling fire, glowering, reluctant to admit his sins. He clutched a cut-glass tumbler in his grip, half-filled with liquor that did nothing to numb his drumming heart or his heated blood.
He was hard and aching for her, and he hadn’t even touched her beyond a brief press on her arm. Yet his entire body pounded for release. His limbs were taut, and muscles strained from the tension. Last evening’s kiss in the hall ran through his mind again. He closed his eyes, savoring the image. Wishing to make merry with the delicious widow under her family’s noses, he was an absolute cad.
His eyes snapped open. She was angry with him. Livid, really. She’d snapped at him, eyes blazing and lips tight. She hadn’t even given him a chance to explain. He’d been trying to confess his feelings for her, blast it all.
With a grunt, he brought the glass to his lips and drained it, savoring the burn of the liquor as it slid down his throat and settled in his stomach with a warm glow. Drowning his frustration with spirits wasn’t the answer. Going to Celia and fucking her senseless wasn’t the answer either. She’d probably refuse him.
Or would she?
No. The single defeating word echoed through his mind, reverberated throughout his body. It would do no good, sampling the lovely woman who twisted his insides and tore at his heart. Once he had her he would never want to let her go. And above all else, he was honorable. He didn’t indulge, rarely drank and never gambled. He was safe. Cautious.
Tonight he damned his cautious nature. Cursed his safe actions. What did it get him but enough frustration to make him want to explode?
He wished to drink more but was too lazy to leave his warm chair and pour himself another. The glass slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor with a thud. It rolled on the thick rug, empty and quickly forgotten as he stared once more at the flames of the dying fire. He saw the sinuous limbs of a certain troublesome woman within the flickering light, twisting and beguiling him. Beckoning him to taste, to sample, to indulge in her for one night, for many nights.
Forever…
Damien shook his head and chuckled low. He was utterly ridiculous. She’d done something to him, and the damage couldn’t be repaired. Everywhere he looked, every thought that crossed his mind—hell, he closed his eyes and all he saw was her, angry and flinging her accusatory words at him, all the while the hideous music playing in the background. Earlier at the pond, skating and laughing with Theo, she’d yelped when she nearly slipped and he’d been there. Catching her fall, he’d wrapped his arms around her, and her soft, voluptuous body pressed against his for a brief, agonizing moment.
She tortured him. There were so many facets to her, a few of them new and intriguing. He wanted to explore them further. How passionate she’d been when he kissed her. The sounds she’d made, the way she’d touched him. Her soft lips and wandering hands…Christ.
He could frig himself. Relieve this pressure with a few strokes of his clutched fingers. Spend into his hand with great, jerking shudders until he was hunched over from the power of his climax, spent and lonely. So lonely he would grow disgusted for doing it in the first place.
So he chose not to. He would let the frustration simmer. Let it irritate him so damned much he’d realize he never wanted to experience such a thing again.
Ha. He was a fool. He would always want Celia. Would always think of her as his, if but for a fleeting moment.
His Celia. Beautiful Celia. He shook his head. A man grew most melancholy when he brooded too much about the woman he lost.
Of course, a man didn’t lose a woman he never had in the first place.
A soft click sounded behind him. He turned but couldn’t see anything. The chair was too wide and tall, and he hadn’t the urge to stand and see what or who it might be. His temporary valet, perhaps? At his personal residence he did without, but the moment he arrived at the Urswick estate, the Danvers made sure he had someone to attend to his needs.
They spoiled him. Having Celia so near spoiled him as well. He needed to resume his solitary life, and soon. He had new responsibilities to attend to. Managing the grand estate of the marquis in the French countryside sounded like difficult but satisfying work.
So why wasn’t he eager to leave?