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Every time he sat before his work, his mind continuously drifted to thoughts of her. The botanical journals in front of him might as well have been written in Cyrillic for all the sense they made to him now. His eyes skimmed over the same paragraph three times before he gave up with a muttered curse, shoving the papers aside.
He had tried to stay away. Tried to tell himself the kiss was a mistake. That restraint was the honorable path, the gentlemanly course of action. After all, she was in his employ, dependent on him for her livelihood.
But his resolve had crumbled like sand under the tide. If Hart—Honoria—continued staying in his household, his feelings for her were not going to disappear. They would only grow, feeding on proximity.
He wanted her. And she needed to know that.
But he didn’t just want her body—though God knew he wanted her with an intensity that left him awake at night—but he also wanted her mind, her spirit, the fire that burned beneath her composed exterior. He wanted her sharp wit and quiet observations, her gentleness, her strength, her level-headedness.
He wanted all of it. All of her.
Whatever decision she would make with that information would be up to her. He would lay his heart at her feet and accept whatever verdict she passed.
Abandoning his work in his glasshouse, he went in search of her.
He approached her door and knocked, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet corridor. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing in his ears.
No answer.
He opened the door cautiously, half-expecting—half-hoping—to find her still abed, sleep-tousled and warm. But the room was empty, the bed neatly made.
He scanned the room with his gaze and was about to leave when something dark caught his eyes near the bed. He couldn’t see clearly without his spectacles, but were those his gloves he had given her?
Was it possible she slept with them by her side?
His lips curved into a smile at the thought.
He hesitated for only a moment before propriety gave way to curiosity. He walked in and slowly made his way toward the oddly familiar object.
Closer and closer he moved, disbelieving his own eyes as the shape finally revealed itself.
Not gloves at all.
But a mask.
Black. Intricate. With delicate filigree work around the eyes and cheeks, pointed cat ears perched on top. The same mask that had haunted his dreams for days.
Her mask.
It couldn’t be.
Could it? The woman he’d kissed during the masquerade—not just kissed, but had nearly taken right there on the chaise—the woman who had responded to him with a passion that matched his own, who urged him on…
Had it been her?
It had always been her.
His heart slammed against his ribs, his thoughts tangled.
Why had she not told him this?
She had sought him out at the ball—he had no idea for what reason—and thinking she was a harlot, he had kissed her.
And she let him.
Did she think he knew who she was?
No, she had given no indication of that. Oh, God. She must think him a rake who kissed women indiscriminately, with no regard for their feelings or reputations. He had kissed her just last night, as well, and then acted as though it never happened.
