Chapter Thirteen #2
His thumb resumed its slow circuit, tracing patterns on her wrist that felt like words in a language she was only beginning to learn. His eyes never left her face, watching her reaction with an intensity that made her feel exposed, seen, and known in a way she had never been before.
"I think about you constantly," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I think about your hair in the firelight. I think about your laugh when Henry says something absurd. The way you look at me like I'm not… Like I'm not the cold, closed-off man everyone else sees."
"You're not. Not to me."
"I was. Before you came." His thumb pressed against her pulse. "Now I'm something else. Something I don't have a name for. Something that aches and wants and can't seem to stop, no matter how hard I try."
"Then stop trying."
The words hung between them, a challenge and an invitation. Alistair's eyes darkened, his breath catching in a way that sent shivers down her spine.
"If I stop trying," he said carefully, "I don't know what I'll do."
"Neither do I." She met his gaze without flinching. "But I think I want to find out."
Something shifted in his expression—a crack in the wall, a glimpse of the fire that burned beneath the ice. His thumb stilled against her wrist, pressing hard enough that she could feel her own heartbeat against his skin.
"We can't," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. "You're…And I'm… And Henry is right there…"
"I know." She knew all the reasons this was impossible, all the obstacles that stood between them.
But she also knew that his touch on her wrist felt like coming home. And that the way he looked at her, with wonder and longing and a kind of desperate hope, was not the way a man looked at a woman he wanted only to possess.
He looked at her like she was precious. Like she was a miracle he had never expected and couldn't quite believe.
"We should stop," she said.
"Yes."
Neither of them moved.
His thumb traced one more slow circle against her pulse, as if memorizing the feel of her heartbeat.
His eyes held hers in the firelight, and she saw everything he was feeling written there: the wanting, the fear, the desperate hope that maybe, somehow, this impossible thing between them could be real.
She saw, too, the question he was afraid to ask. The words hovering on his lips that he couldn't quite bring himself to speak.
What are we doing? Where is this going? Is there any future for this, or are we just torturing ourselves with something that can never be?
She didn't have answers. Neither did he. And perhaps that was why, after one more breathless moment, he released her hand.
The loss of contact felt like a physical wound. Eliza had to stop herself from reaching for him, from pulling his hand back to her wrist where it belonged.
"Forgive me," he said roughly. "That was…I shouldn't have…"
"Don't apologise." She flexed her wrist, feeling the ghost of his touch still burning against her skin. "Don't ever apologise for that."
"I don't know what to do," he admitted. "I don't know how to be near you without wanting…" He stopped and pressed his hand against his eyes. "I've never felt this way before. About anyone. And I have no idea how to navigate it."
"Neither do I." She reached out, just briefly, and touched his sleeve. "But maybe we don't have to figure it out tonight."
"No." He lowered his hand, meeting her eyes. "No, I suppose we don't."
They sat in silence for a while longer, watching Henry sleep, not touching but acutely aware of each other.
"You should rest," Alistair said finally. "I'll watch him."
"You need rest, too."
"I couldn't sleep even if I tried." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "My mind is too full."
"Of what?"
"Of you." He said it simply, without artifice. "Of the feel of your pulse beneath my thumb. Of the way you looked when you told me not to stop." His voice dropped. "Of all the things I want to do and can't."
Eliza's breath caught. "Alistair…"
"Go to bed, Eliza." His voice was rough but gentle. "Before I do something we'll both regret."
"I wouldn't regret it," she said softly. "Whatever you're thinking of doing…I wouldn't regret it."
And before he could respond, she rose and left the room, her heart pounding, her wrist still tingling where his touch had been.
She didn't sleep.
She lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over.
This was happening. Whatever this was, this impossible, inadvisable, utterly wonderful thing, it was actually happening. The Duke of Northmere wanted her. Not just as a governess. Not just as a companion for his brother. He wanted her, in all the ways a man could want a woman.
And she wanted him back with an intensity that frightened her.
She turned on her side, pulling the blankets up to her chin, and tried to impose some order on her chaotic thoughts. There were practical considerations to think about. Her reputation, her livelihood. The scandal that would follow if anyone discovered what was happening between them.
But somehow, in the small hours of the night, with the ghost of his touch still burning on her wrist, those considerations felt very distant indeed.
***
When morning came, Henry's fever was entirely gone.