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Hard, thick, stretching her fully. Filling her. Completing her in a way she hadn’t known she needed until she’d met him.

She imagined the weight of him pressing her into the mattress, the slick slide of his body against hers, the sound of his breath, low and ragged, his voice broken as he groaned her name. Not Hart. Not Miss Hartwell. Just Honoria.

Her name in his low, raspy voice would be the sweetest sound.

Her free hand gripped the sheet as she reached the edge, legs trembling, breath catching. And then she came, with his name on her lips and her heart aching in her chest, pleasure cascading through her in waves that left her boneless and spent.

She lay still afterward, chest rising and falling, the sweat cooling on her skin, the scent of her arousal hanging in the air around her.

She glanced at the window, grimacing at the morning light filtering through the curtains.

Her pleasure faded, leaving behind a hollow ache that no amount of self-pleasure could fill.

She exhaled sharply and flung the blankets aside, frustration simmering beneath her skin. It wasn’t just a desire now—it hadn’t been for a long time. She wanted him with an aching depth that terrified her—not just his body, but his mind, his heart, his gentle hands and quiet voice, the fire in his eyes when he was excited about a new project.

But how did he feel?

He had kissed her. Her.

She touched her lips, still feeling the phantom pressure of his mouth, the taste of him. But when she’d said she would be staying, he’d seemed almost disappointed.

She dressed slowly, fingers fumbling with the buttons of her dress, wincing as one caught in her hair. Her normally deft hands betrayed her inner turmoil.

Was he regretting their kiss? Had he kissed her as a way to say goodbye? As a consolation prize before she departed?

And now that she was staying, he felt ashamed and confused. That was certainly an unpleasant possibility.

She was infinitely confused, caught between hope and dread.

She ran a brush through her hair with unnecessary force, wincing as it caught on tangles. The woman in the looking glass stared back at her with dark-circled eyes and lips pressed into a thin line.

“Enough,” she whispered to her reflection. “Collect your bearings, Honor. You’ve faced down worse than the uncertainty of a man’s feelings. You will not cower now.”

She walked out of her room and started on her daily duties, the familiar routine a balm to her nerves. She was checking the inventory in the pantry, making sure the silver was properly polished, when a footman approached her.

“Miss Hartwell, there’s a post boy outside. He says he has a missive for you.”

Her heart leapt to her throat. It was from Lydia. It must be. But was she writing from? She was supposed to be on her way to the Continent by now.

She hurried outside. A scrawny boy of about ten stood shifting from foot to foot, his cap twisted in his hands. He brightened when he saw her, extending a folded paper sealed with wax.

“For you, miss,” he said.

Honoria flipped a coin to the boy, who caught it, doffed his cap, and scampered away before she tore open the note, her heart pounding a violent tattoo against her ribs.

Dear H,

I have not left the country. In fact, I reconnected with Thornton, and everything is too complicated to explain in a single missive, but we’ve talked, and a lot of things have become clear. I was never certain I could leave him behind, and now I know I can’t. We are both in hiding, for now. But I am safe, and that’s all I wanted you to know. Do not worry about me. I will contact you as soon as I can.

L

Honoria stood frozen, the paper trembling in her hand as she read the words again and again, as if with every repetition new words might appear between the lines. Last she knew, Lydia had been furious with the viscount. Yes, Honoria knew that Lydia still loved him—love like that didn’t simply disappear—but hadn’t the viscount abandoned her and left her to die?

Everything Lydia had told her about her prior life, all the hardships she had to live through because of the viscount’s actions, were still fresh in Honoria’s mind.

Unless some of it was a misunderstanding?

Honoria had always believed Lydia’s recounting of events without question. Having suffered at the hands of a nobleman herself, she had no reason to doubt her. But the more Lydia shared, the more Honoria sensed something was missing. Maybe even something Lydia didn’t realize.