Chapter Fourteen #2
Eliza rose from her chair, slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment. They were standing face to face now, barely a foot apart.
"I haven't tried to stop," she admitted. "I should have. I know I should have. But I couldn't bring myself to want to."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that I think about you too. That I lie awake remembering the feel of your hand on my wrist, the sound of your voice in the dark. That I know this is impossible and inadvisable and probably doomed, and I don't care." Her voice broke slightly. "I don't care, Alistair. I just want…"
"What do you want?"
Everything. She wanted everything. She wanted his hands in her hair and his mouth on hers and a future that society would never allow them to have.
But she couldn't say that. She couldn't put into words the enormity of what she was feeling.
"I want you to stop holding back," she said instead. "I want you to stop being sensible. Just this once, just for one moment, I want you to be as reckless as I feel."
The silence that followed was absolute. Alistair stared at her, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, his hands clenched at his sides as if he were fighting some tremendous internal battle.
Then he moved.
His hand came up slowly and cupped her jaw.
His fingers were warm against her skin, slightly rough from riding and estate work. His palm cradled her face like she was something precious, something fragile. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, and she felt the touch all the way to her toes.
She stopped breathing. There was nothing in the universe except his hand on her face and his eyes burning into hers with an intensity that made her knees weak.
"Eliza." Her name was a prayer on his lips. A plea. A promise. "If I kiss you…"
"Yes."
"If I kiss you, I won't be able to pretend anymore.
I won't be able to go back to polite distance and proper behaviour.
I'll want…" His thumb traced the line of her lower lip, slowly, deliberately, and she shuddered.
The sensation was electric, overwhelming.
No one had ever touched her like this before: like she was sacred, like she was desired, like she was everything. "I'll want everything."
"So will I."
They were so close now. Close enough that she could feel his breath on her face, warm and slightly uneven.
"This is madness," he murmured, and his voice was rough, strained.
"Yes."
"We should stop."
"Yes."
Neither of them moved.
His other hand came up, settling on her waist, drawing her infinitesimally closer.
She could feel the length of his body now, the heat of him through layers of clothing.
Her own hands rose without conscious thought, pressing flat against his chest, feeling the rapid hammer of his heart beneath her palms.
He was as affected, desperate, and lost as she was.
"Eliza…"
"Don't stop." The words came out breathless, desperate. "Please don't stop."
His thumb traced her lip again, back and forth, a maddening caress that made her whole body ache. His eyes dropped to her mouth, dark with want, and she saw his intention there; she saw the moment when restraint began to crumble.
He tilted his head. She felt herself rising to meet him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his waistcoat. His breath ghosted across her lips. One inch. Half an inch. Almost…
A log shifted in the fire, sending a shower of sparks spiraling up the chimney.
Henry stirred on the settee, mumbling something in his sleep.
They froze.
For one endless moment, they stood motionless, Alistair's hand still cupping her jaw, their bodies still pressed together, their mouths still inches apart. Waiting.
Henry turned over, pulling the blanket higher, and settled back into sleep.
But the moment was broken.
Alistair released her jaw, and stepped back. His expression was anguished; a man who had been offered water in the desert and had it snatched away at the last moment.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough. "I shouldn't have…"
"Don't apologise." Eliza pressed her hand to her racing heart, trying to steady herself. "Don't ever apologise for that."
"But I should have… We shouldn't have…"
"We didn't." The words came out more bitter than she intended. "We didn't do anything. We never do anything. We just.." She gestured helplessly. "We just stop. Every time."
"Because we have to." He raked a hand through his hair, his composure cracking. "Because I'm a duke and you're a governess and there are rules, Eliza. Rules that exist to protect people like you from people like me."
"People like you?"
"Men with power. Men who can take what they want and damn the consequences." His voice was harsh, self-lacerating. "If I ruin you…If I take what I want and then can't give you what you deserve…"
"What do I deserve?"
"Everything." The word was fervent, almost desperate.
"Marriage. Security. A home of your own, children of your own, a life where you don't have to depend on the goodwill of employers who could dismiss you at any moment.
You deserve…" He stopped, his jaw working. "You deserve more than I can offer."
"And if I don't want more? If I want…" She swallowed. "If I want you?"
"You shouldn't."
"But I do."
The words hung between them, stark and undeniable. Outside, the storm continued to rage. Inside, another storm was building; one that neither of them knew how to weather.
"This isn't over," Alistair said finally. "I know we need to stop. I know we need to be sensible. But this…" He gestured between them. "This isn't going away. I've tried to make it go away, and it only grows stronger."
"I know."
"I don't know what the answer is. I don't know how to have you without ruining you, how to love you without…"
He stopped, his eyes widening slightly, as if he had said something he hadn't meant to say.
Love.
He had said love.
"Alistair…"
"Forget I said that." His voice was rough, almost panicked. "I didn't mean…That is to say, I…"
"Don't." She stepped closer, close enough to touch, though she kept her hands at her sides. "Don't take it back. Don't pretend you didn't say it."
"Eliza…"
"You said love."
"I know what I said."
"Did you mean it?"
The question hung between them, weighted with everything that would follow from the answer. If he said yes, if he admitted to loving her, everything would change. They would no longer be two people circling an attraction. There would be two people facing an impossible choice.
"Yes." The word was barely audible. "Heaven, help me, yes. I meant it."
Eliza felt the tears prick at her eyes—tears of joy, of fear, of the overwhelming enormity of the moment. The Duke of Northmere loved her. He loved her, not just wanted her.
"I love you too," she whispered. "I've been afraid to say it, afraid of what it would mean, but I love you, Alistair. I think I've loved you for weeks."
For a moment, joy transformed his face—pure, unguarded joy that made him look younger, softer, like the man he might have been if life had been kinder to him.
Then reality reasserted itself, and the joy faded into something more complicated.
"What do we do now?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I don't know."
"Neither do I." He reached out and took her hand; just her hand, nothing more, a contact that could be explained away if anyone saw. "But I think…I think we need to figure it out. Together."
"Together," she agreed.
Henry stirred again on the settee, and they stepped apart, resuming their positions on opposite sides of the room just as his eyes fluttered open.
"Did I miss anything?" he asked sleepily.
Eliza and Alistair exchanged a glance full of secrets and promises and the weight of everything that had passed between them.
"Nothing at all," Eliza said. "Just a chess game."
"Who won?"
"Your brother, apparently. Checkmate in three moves."
"I told you chess was boring."
"It was anything but boring," Alistair murmured, so low that only Eliza could hear. "I assure you of that."
***
The storm broke that night.
Eliza lay in her bed, listening to the wind die down, feeling the change in pressure that signaled the end of the tempest. Outside her window, the clouds were beginning to part, revealing glimpses of stars she hadn't seen in days.
She couldn't sleep. How could she sleep after what had happened? After the things they had said to each other?
I love you.
I love you too.
He loved her. The Duke of Northmere—cold, distant, impossible Alistair Ravenshaw—loved her. A governess with no fortune, no connections, no claim to anything except her own heart.
How had this happened?
She didn't know. She only knew that it had happened, and that there was no going back, and that tomorrow she would have to face him knowing everything had changed.
***
By morning, the wind had died down, and the snow had stopped falling. The world outside was transformed into a landscape of pristine white, beautiful and treacherous, sparkling in the weak winter sunlight.
The household emerged from its enforced hibernation with relief, the servants bustling to clear paths and check on outbuildings, the grooms fighting through drifts to reach the stables. Life returned to something like normalcy.
But for Eliza, nothing was normal anymore.
The next few days passed in a haze of stolen glances and careful distance. They didn't speak of what had happened in the library; they didn't need to. It was there between them always, a shared secret that colored every interaction.
But love, they were both discovering, was not enough. Love didn't bridge the gap between a duke and a governess. Love didn't solve the problem of society's expectations, of family obligations, of the thousand practical obstacles that stood between them and any kind of future.