Chapter Seventeen #2
“Wakefield. I visited infrequently, but whenever I did, they were all very pleasant. My father’s antics had not made them despise me.” She grimaced. “I rather think they pitied me instead, which is not any better.”
“Worse, in fact.” As he knew from personal experience.
“I don’t pity you,” she said thoughtfully, and though it shouldn’t have, it made his heart pound with sudden awareness.
When was the last time anyone had said that to him?
Such a small thing. He strove to keep it from his face.
“I think a terrible thing happened to you, and I’m sorry for it, but there’s no point in pity.
My mother often told me she pitied me for being plain, but there’s no use in that, either.
She couldn’t make me pretty, and I can’t make you whole.
I expect you’ll always be scarred, but what matters is how you treat others. ”
He stopped where he was, turning her to face him.
A line appeared between her brows as she returned his curious gaze, her eyes traveling across his face just as his traveled over hers.
Yes, she would never be considered a beauty, but he found himself drawn to her face.
She was an education in contrast—the sharp, stubborn line of her jaw against her thin mouth, strong nose, and big eyes.
Those eyes. They were what saved her from plainness.
Now, whenever he saw her, he noticed her eyes first. The emotions that pooled in them, the changeable colors—silver and gray and sometimes even hints of blue or brown, as though they reflected the moods of the sky or the tempestuous demands of a storm.
Pain had forged him, but she had grown up neglected and lonely, and that had sharpened her, too.
His voice was little more than a growl as he said, “Your mother called you plain?”
“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 flush deepened, 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.”