Page 52 of When We Touch

Only increased.

And so it was that the time slipped away, and the things that should have been said were not. There was room for nothing but savoring each taste of the fruit, relishing feel and taste and sight and touch . . . dying a little, as written by poets she had not believed before this night, not even when she had loved before.

And somewhere, the wonder turned into exhaustion and dreams, for the next thing she knew, he was urgently waking her.

“My God, it’s nearly dawn. I’ve got to get you home.”

He was up, and it was over. Naked, supple, sleek, he drew his fingers through the darkness of his hair as he headed for his bath.

She didn’t want him coming back to find her still upon the bed. She rose, gathered the pieces of her clothing strewn about, and ran desperately for the door. As she threw it open, she prayed suddenly that she would not come so, stark naked, upon a member of his household.

God was with her. She did not.

She burst into the guest room, washed and dressed quickly. Her fingers shook as she tried to make neat work of a head of hair more tangled now than ever. Everything, she did with the most tremendous haste.

She burst back out into the hallway. His door remained as she had left it; closed. She stared at it a moment, tension and indecision ripping through her.

Then she turned and fled down the stairs, praying she would find Randolph in the kitchen.

She did.

He glanced up, and if he saw the tempest in her eyes or form, he gave no indication.

“Would you mind . . . I need to go home now.”

“As you wish, my lady. Certainly, as you wish.”

* * *

“You don’t have to go through with it. You do not have to marry Charles. He will be terribly sad, but he’s a fine man all the way through, and he will understand.”

Jamie returned to the bedroom saying the words.

But she was no longer on the bed.

She had gone to the other room, he thought. Swearing, he reached for his readily available clothing, but there seemed to be pieces everywhere.

He dug his smoking jacket from the wardrobe, threw it around himself, and headed into the hall. Mrs. Angsley, his housekeeper, was up and moving down the hall.

“Morning, sir!” she told him cheerfully.

“Morning. I had a lady in the guest room, Mrs. Angsley. Could you check on her for me, please?”

She was a broad, kindly woman with cherry red cheeks and stone gray hair. “Why, sir, I’d be happy to do so—but she’s gone, I’m afraid.”

“Gone?” he said, startled.

“Yes, Sir James; I believe so, for I heard Randolph pulling the carriage out, just as I came up the stairs.”

“I see. Thank you.”

He stepped back into his room, shut his door, and leaned against it.

So that it was it. Lies and pretense. Not all lies. She had wanted him as badly as he had wanted her.

But that hadn’t been enough.

For the woman who had once married a commoner, he wasn’t enough. She’d been offered nobility, and real riches, and she meant to have them.