Chapter Seven #2
Eliza knew she should protest. Should assert her own agency, remind both men that she was not a prize to be claimed or territory to be marked.
She was a person, with her own desires and decisions, and she did not appreciate being spoken about as though she were a china vase to be handed from one collector to another.
But the possessiveness in William’s voice, the raw, barely controlled hunger beneath the polished words, was doing things to her body that made protest difficult.
“Miss Hayfield.” Mr Alcott turned to her, his expression questioning. “If you would prefer—”
“Thank you for your company, Mr Alcott.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “I believe I shall take a turn about the room with His Grace.”
Something flickered in Alcott’s eyes, disappointment, perhaps, or resignation. He bowed correctly and withdrew, leaving Eliza alone with William and the crackling tension that surrounded them like a storm waiting to break.
“That was rude,” she said quietly.
“Yes.”
“You practically chased him away.”
“Yes.”
“You have no right to—”
“I know.” His voice was rough. “I know I have no right. I know I have offered you nothing that would justify this… this possessiveness I feel. I know Alcott is a better match for you in every conceivable way, more stable, more honourable, more likely to make you happy.” His hand found her elbow, guiding her toward the edge of the room, away from curious ears.
“And I know that none of that matters, because the moment I saw him sitting beside you, I wanted to destroy him.”
They had reached a relatively secluded corner, partially shielded from view by a large potted palm. William positioned himself so that his body blocked her from the room, creating a bubble of privacy that was probably inadvisable but undeniably intoxicating.
“You wanted to destroy him,” Eliza repeated. “For talking to me.”
“For looking at you the way I look at you.” His grey eyes were intense, burning. “For wanting you the way I want you. For having the audacity to imagine he might have you when you are…”
He stopped. Drew a breath that seemed to cost him something.
“When I am what?” she pressed.
“When you are mine.”
The word hit her like a physical blow.
He had no right to say such a thing; they both knew he had no right. And yet the sound of it on his lips sent heat flooding through her body, pooling low in her belly, making her press her thighs together against an ache she was only beginning to understand.
“I am not yours,” she said, but her voice was breathless, unconvincing even to her own ears.
“No?” He stepped closer. Too close. Close enough that she could smell him, sandalwood and something darker, something that made her think of rumpled sheets and gasping breaths.
“Then why did you look at me across the room as though you were waiting for me? Why did you flush when our eyes met? Why are you standing here now, in this corner, letting me say these things to you instead of slapping my face and returning to your respectable Mr Alcott?”
She had no answer. Or rather, she had an answer, but speaking it aloud would be an admission she was not sure she was ready to make.
“I watched you with him,” William continued, and his voice had dropped to something low and dangerous.
“I watched you smile at his jokes and nod at his conversation and accept his lemonade, and I thought I might actually go mad. I have never…” He broke off, shook his head.
“I have never felt this before. This… consuming need to claim you. To mark you as mine so that every man in this room knows you are not available for their pursuit.”
“William…”
“When you say my name like that…” His hand came up, and for a moment, she thought he might touch her face.
Instead, his fingers hovered a breath away from her cheek, not quite making contact but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
“When you say my name like that, I forget every reason I should walk away from you.”
“Then forget.” The words escaped before she could stop them. “Forget all of it. The reasons, the warnings, the fears. Just…”
“Just what?”
She should not say it. She should step back, compose herself, return to the safety of the party and the predictable courtship of Mr Alcott. She should protect herself from this man who admitted he wanted to possess her but had offered her nothing concrete in return.
“Touch me,” she whispered. “Please. I can’t bear it; I need…”
His control shattered.
His hand closed around her elbow, and he was moving, pulling her through a door she hadn’t noticed, into a dimly lit corridor that seemed to exist outside the musicale entirely.
Before she could process what was happening, her back was against the wall, and William was there, his body crowding hers, his hands braced on either side of her head, his face inches away.
“Do you understand what you’re asking?” His voice was ragged. “Do you have any idea what I want to do to you right now?”
She shook her head, but it was a lie. She had some idea. The dreams had given her that much, the aching, vivid dreams that woke her flushed and desperate, reaching for a man who wasn’t there.
“I want to kiss you until you forget Alcott’s name.
Until you forget every man who has ever looked at you.
” His breath was hot against her lips, tantalisingly close but not quite touching.
“I want to put my hands on your body and learn every curve, every hollow, every place that makes you gasp. I want to make you moan my name the way you moaned it in my fantasies; yes, I have fantasies about you, I am long past pretending otherwise. I want to claim you so thoroughly that no one will ever question who you belong to.”
Eliza’s heart was pounding so hard she was certain he could hear it. Her entire body was trembling, with want, with fear, with the overwhelming intensity of his proximity.