Sometimes none at all.
For obvious reasons, he’d given a lot less thought to what he would be wearing, but he’d made up for that by imagining various different settings and positions.
Now, though, might not be the best time to admit any of that.
‘Nothing specific,’ he said blandly.
‘It’s just that the Beaters’ Ball is happening tomorrow.’
He saw her hesitate.
‘At Castle Kilvean. It’s Lord Airlie’s home—just up the road from Lamington.’
She hesitated again.
‘I usually go, and I was wondering if you might like to go with me.’ Straightening her back, she glanced around the dining room. ‘You brought me here, and I’d really like to take you somewhere special in return.’
Farlan leaned back in his seat and let the silence grow.
This was an affair.
Affairs were supposed to be about sex and fun.
Not getting dressed up to spend an evening with a bunch of strangers. Besides, balls weren’t really his cup of tea…
He frowned. Why did it have to be all about what he wanted? Wasn’t that part of the reason everything had fallen apart last time. Him needing to come first.
‘It’s okay, I know it’s not your thing—’
Leaning forward, he cupped her face in his hand, his thumb caressing the curve of her cheekbone. ‘It is now,’ he murmured. He kissed her again, his mouth parting hers, his fingers tightening in her hair. ‘I would love to go to the ball with you, Lady Antonia. On one condition.’
‘What’s that?’ She was smiling now.
‘Promise you won’t run away from me at midnight.’
‘I promise,’ she agreed.
His throat tightened. She thought they were flirting, and if life had treated him differently she would have been right. But for him a promise was never enough. For him promises were always just waiting to be broken.
He gritted his teeth. Even now, after all this time, he still hadn’t mastered his fear. Hating the feeling, he looked away, jerking his head at the waitress to break the mood.
‘So, who is this Lord Airlie?’ he asked.
‘He’s a neighbour and a friend.’
Something in her voice, or maybe the way she’d said ‘friend’, made his muscles tense.
‘What kind of friend? Old? New? Best?’
Was he just imagining it, or did her face change minutely? Her eyes?
‘A good one,’ she said.
She met his gaze. ‘Andrew’s a good person and a good boss. It was actually his idea to ask all of his estate workers and household staff to join in with the ball—you know, to make it more inclusive. I think you’ll like him,’ she added.
That was unlikely, he thought, feeling a slow swell of jealousy rising as he watched her face soften. He wanted to ask her more about this other man, only he couldn’t bear the thought of how it would sound.
Or of hearing what she mig