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Devil take it. She must think him a complete reprobate.
He grimaced and paced to the window, his fingers tangling in his hair.
He glanced out the window, and there she was. Entering his glasshouse.
No doubt, looking for him.
He turned on his heel and strode down the corridor, rushing to confront his fate.
It was time for the truth to come out—from both sides.
No more masks.
No more lies.
Just the truth.
* * *
“Hart.”
She jumped and whirled at the sound of his voice, her hand flying to her chest where her heart thudded wildly. He stood framed in the doorway of the glasshouse, sunlight streaming behind him, casting his face in shadow.
“Jaco—My lord,” she stammered, catching herself before the intimacy of his given name could fully escape her lips. Her cheeks flushed, and not from the heat of the glasshouse.
He tilted his head, watching her with those penetrating eyes that seemed to see too much. The intensity of his gaze made her feel exposed, bare before him, as though he could read her every thought.
“Have you been looking for me?” His voice was calm and controlled, but something was beneath the surface—tension, perhaps, or anticipation.
“Yes. Um… Right. I wanted to speak with you.” She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. Her fingers trembled slightly, and she clasped them together to still them.
“Then speak.” He took a step closer, and the air between them seemed to crackle. Or perhaps it was the humid air of the glasshouse.
She was so distracted by his unexpected arrival that her mind was a jumbled mess. Again. All her preparation flew out the window, the carefully constructed speech she’d rehearsed in her head dissolving like sugar in hot tea. What came out instead was, “You kissed me.”
“Pardon?” His eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Last night. You kissed me.” She lifted her chin, determined to maintain at least the appearance of composure, even as her insides quivered like jelly.
He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. “Yes. Apologies. I—”
“You apologize?” A range of emotions hit her in rapid succession. Confusion. Disbelief. Disappointment. Then…
Anger.
“You’re apologizing for kissing me?” She let out a short humorless laugh, and then all her bitterness tumbled from her lips. “Here I am dreaming of kissing you again, my heart filled with trepidation at the thought of your touch, hoping against hope that the feeling is mutual, and you apologize to me?”
“You dream of me?” He looked absolutely dumbfounded. His composure finally cracking, a flush rose from beneath his collar to stain his cheeks.
“And this!” She waved her hand toward the flower behind her. “This tulip. You named it after me. Didn’t you?”
“I did,” he said, his voice low and rough. He took another step closer, close enough now that she could smell the familiar scent of him—bergamot and leather and something uniquely his own.
“And what, does it not mean a thing? Have you a mountain of flowers named after every servant in the house?” Her anger made her bold, pushing words past her lips that propriety would have kept locked away.
“No.”
His monosyllabic answers started grating on her nerves, stoking the fire of her frustration. “And then you give me your gloves. A-and in your bathing chambers, you looked at me as though losing me would break you. And now you act as though none of that means anything?”
