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His eyes darkened a shade. He tilted his head, studying her with avid curiosity. He set his free hand on the desk beside her hip, and the space between them shrank to almost nothing. "What do you want, then?"

She had thought her heart could not beat harder.

"You," she said.

Chapter Eighteen

London

18th September 1818

My dear Temperance,

I have owed you this letter for longer than I care to count, and I have no excuse that does me any credit.

As to the captain of the Piedmontese guards, you may tell him your husband exists, is in excellent health, and fences. And that he has now sent you a third letter.

I have not told my mother about the post horse. But I have told Leslie, and she is very impressed. She is here in London with me, getting ready for her debut.

I do not waltz. Perhaps you can teach me one day. Leslie, however, is not allowed to learn it until she is at least seventy.

I can send you news of London if you wish. Currently, the city is abuzz with the most outrageous wager White's has seen this year: My friend, whom the world calls the Mad Marquess, wagered he can sail a yacht to the North Pole. Half of London has taken his money. I have told him I would sooner swim there than go with him.

I go north to my mother in October. If you write while I am away, Whitlow will see that it reaches me. He is the most reliable man in England, and I would trust him with my life.

As to husbands who are far away in London: if you want me to come for you, you will have to stay still for more than two months together. Tell me where, and I shall come.

Your husband,

Sutton

P.S. The cream on the coffee looks very appetizing. Looking forward to tasting it, if I ever reach the Continent.

You.

Such a simple word, only three letters, and yet Sutton could not believe his ears.

He went absolutely still.

Did she mean it? Did she want him—actually him?

Not just the release of lying together. Not the duty that might lead to a child. Him. Just him.

Something fragile and terrifying swelled in his chest.

"Are you trying to seduce me, Lady Sutton?" he asked, his voice teasing.

"Very much," she answered breathlessly. "Is it working?"

A slow smile curved his mouth.

She sat on the edge of the desk, and he set his hands on her knees, caressing them with his thumbs. He parted her legs slowly, without once breaking her gaze. A storm was brewing in those dark brown eyes. They had turned almost black with need.

He stepped between her knees, so close that his chest brushed hers, and he felt the heat of her through his shirt and her nightrail.

"You do not need to try," he said, low and rough against her ear. "You have never needed to try."

Her hands went to his chest, and he let them. His heart, frantic and thundering, beat a wild staccato against her palm.