Chapter Eight #2
Eliza couldn't pinpoint exactly when it started; perhaps it had always been there, simmering beneath the surface, but in the days following their conversation on the moors, it became impossible to ignore.
She was aware of him constantly. Aware of where he was in a room, of how close he stood, of the exact timber of his voice when he spoke.
She noticed things she had no business noticing: the way his hair curled slightly at his temples when the weather was damp.
The strength of his hands as he helped Henry with a difficult task.
The rare, fleeting smiles that transformed his face from austere to almost handsome.
More than handsome. Devastating.
She noticed his hands most of all. Those elegant, capable hands that had learned to press flowers with surprising gentleness, that ruffled Henry's hair with increasing ease, that sometimes reached toward her before he caught himself and pulled back.
She wondered, in her weaker moments, what those hands would feel like on her skin.
And she was fairly certain he was aware of her, too.
She caught him watching her sometimes. She felt his gaze on her hair, her hands, her mouth. She noticed the way he positioned himself in rooms, always keeping her in his line of sight, always seeming to know exactly where she was.
When they passed in hallways, his step would slow.
When their hands accidentally brushed, he would freeze for just a moment, as if the touch had burned him.
When she laughed at something Henry said, his eyes would find her face and linger there, drinking in the sight of her joy as if it were water and he were dying of thirst.
It was maddening, thrilling and absolutely, categorically inappropriate.
She tried to maintain her distance and keep their interactions professional, focused on Henry, free of the charged undercurrents that threatened to pull them both under. But it was like trying to ignore a storm.
"You're staring," she said one afternoon, when she looked up from helping Henry with his letters to find Alistair's gray eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
He blinked, color rising in his cheeks. "I was... thinking."
"About?"
"Nothing of consequence." He looked away, his jaw tight. "Henry, your 'g' is backwards."
"No, it isn't."
"It is. Look, the tail should curve this way, not that way."
"Miss Harrow says my letters are improving."
"Miss Harrow is very encouraging. But encouragement doesn't change the direction of the alphabet."
Henry sighed with the long-suffering patience of a child who had heard this kind of thing before. "Fine. I'll fix it."
He bent over his slate, tongue poking out in concentration, and Eliza took the opportunity to study Alistair's profile. The strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows and the way his hands rested on the table.
She wondered what those hands would feel like. On her waist, in her hair, against her…
"Miss Harrow?"
She startled. "Yes?"
"Is something wrong? You look flushed."
"I'm fine. Perfectly fine. It's just warm in here." She stood abruptly, moving to the window. "I shall open this and let in some air."
This was getting out of hand, she thought.
***
The incident with the book was what nearly undid her.
They were in the library—all three of them, a rainy afternoon having driven them indoors. The room was warm from the fire crackling in the grate, the air heavy with the smell of leather bindings and old paper.
Henry was curled in a window seat, absorbed in a picture book about horses that Eliza had found in the nursery collection. His feet were tucked beneath him, his brow furrowed in concentration, occasionally murmuring to himself as he traced the illustrations with one finger.
Eliza was searching the shelves for something appropriate for their next literature lesson. She moved along the bookcases slowly, reading the spines, acutely aware of the man seated at the large mahogany desk behind her.
And Alistair was pretending to review estate documents while actually watching her move along the bookshelves.
She knew he was watching. Every time she reached for a book, she felt his gaze trace the movement. Every time she bent to examine a lower shelf, she felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
It should have made her uncomfortable. Instead, it made her feel alive in a way she couldn't quite explain.
"Do you have any collections of myths?" she asked, keeping her voice casual with effort. "Greek or Roman? Henry has developed quite a passion for Perseus, and I thought we might expand his knowledge."
"Third shelf from the top. Far end." His voice was carefully neutral, but she heard the slight roughness in it—the same roughness she'd heard in the garden, on the moors, in all those moments when his control slipped just enough to let something real through.
"There should be a volume of Ovid. Somewhat abridged for younger readers. "
"Third shelf from the top." She stretched, reaching for the indicated location, but her fingers fell short. The book was just beyond her grasp, tantalizingly close but impossible to reach without a step stool. "I can't quite…"
"Allow me."
He was behind her before she registered his movement.
One moment, she was reaching, stretching, aware of the inadequacy of her height; the next, he was there.
So close that she could feel the heat of him through the layers of her dress, so close that his arm brushed her shoulder as he reached past her to retrieve the book.
She caught his scent, sandalwood and something else, something warm and male and uniquely him, and felt her knees go weak. Her heart stuttered. Her breath caught in her throat, and every nerve in her body seemed to come alive at once, singing with an awareness so intense it was almost painful.
"Here." His voice was rough—rougher than before, stripped of its careful neutrality.
He held out the book, but he didn't step back.
He didn't create the distance that propriety demanded, and he didn't do any of the things a gentleman should do when he found himself standing far too close to an unmarried woman.
Eliza turned and found herself trapped between the bookshelf and his chest, mere inches separating them. The wood pressed against her shoulder blades. His body blocked any retreat. And his eyes, those storm-gray eyes, were fixed on her face with an intensity that stole her breath.
"Thank you," she managed. Her voice came out as a whisper; barely audible over the rain against the windows, the crackle of the fire, and the thundering of her own heart.
"You're welcome."
Neither of them moved.
She could see the pulse beating in his throat; rapid, unsteady, and matching the rhythm of her own racing heart. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she felt her lips part of their own accord, an invitation she hadn't meant to issue but couldn't seem to retract.
His hand moved. Just a fraction—the smallest shift of his fingers toward her face. She saw it happen, felt her whole body lean toward him in response, and thought: This is it. This is the moment. He's going to kiss me.
"Miss Harrow! Look!"
Henry's voice shattered the moment like glass. They sprang apart as if burned, Eliza clutching the book to her chest, Alistair retreating to a safe distance with an expression of carefully controlled composure.
"What is it, Henry?" Alistair's voice was steady, but Eliza could see the tension in his shoulders.
"There's a horse in this book that looks exactly like Sovereign! See?" Henry bounded over, thrusting the picture book toward his brother. "Same colour, same mane, same irritable expression. Do you think they're related?"
"I... Perhaps. Horses can look quite similar."
"Miss Harrow, come look!"
Eliza moved to join them, grateful for the distraction, for the excuse to put distance between herself and the man who had just looked at her as if he wanted to devour her whole.
"Oh yes," she said, her voice only slightly unsteady. "I see the resemblance. Though I'm not sure Sovereign would appreciate being called irritable."
"But he is. He tried to bite Thomas yesterday."
"Did he? The rascal."
The conversation flowed on; safe, mundane, nothing like the charged silence of moments before. But Eliza's heart was still pounding. Her skin was still tingling where she'd felt the heat of Alistair's body so close to hers.
And when she risked a glance in his direction, she found him watching her again, his gray eyes dark with something that looked a great deal like hunger.
***
That night, Eliza couldn't sleep.
Sleep was surely a lost cause, and she had known it the moment she climbed beneath the covers.
Her skin still felt the heat of him, that wall of warmth that had stood so close behind her at the bookshelf that she could have leaned back and rested against his chest.
She had almost done it, too. Almost let herself fall backwards into him, and propriety be damned.
But then Henry had shouted about that wretched illustrated horse, and the moment had shattered like a dropped crystal.
She adored that child beyond all reason, but she would, at this particular moment, have given a year’s wages if she could have five minutes more.
Because Alistair had been about to kiss her.
She was certain of it. His hand had been moving toward her face.
His grey eyes had dropped to her mouth. The air between them had thickened into something liquid and electric, and if one small boy and his boundless enthusiasm for illustrated horses had remained blessedly silent for ten more seconds, the Duke of Northmere’s lips would have been pressed against hers.
The thought made her groan into her pillow with the fervour of a woman in genuine torment.