recalls it no longer.”
She was standing too, now, he noted. She reached out to clutch the tree. He could see it in her eyes, the same curiosity that he’d witnessed so many times before. She wanted to ask. They all did. Everyone was eaten with curiosity. What had the Viscount done, to make his son hate him so? What was his sin?
Only one person had never asked. Hestia. He knew why. She’d lived some version of his hell herself, and didn’t need details.
But Miss Stockton—Addy—wouldn’t know. She was a child conceived in love and raised with care. Even her imagination couldn’t conjure such a monster as his father.
He tried to summon his anger, his disdain, the blunt, rude words he used to push away everyone who gave in to vulgar, idle curiosity. They wouldn’t come. He couldn’t hurl his usual retorts at her.
He waited.
She licked her lips. He flinched before she ever made a sound, waiting for the arrow to arrive.
“I’m sorry.”
He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes. They opened now so that he could stare at her.
Dangerous.
Not because she was the beautiful, curved, perfect representation of an angel mixed with an imp. But because she returned the favor that had meant so much to her. She looked past his facade and saw the hurt, the vulnerability.
And she didn’t ask.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He abruptly stepped near. He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her hard. Fierce. Possessive. Grateful. He tried to convey it all.
“So am I,” he told her.
He spun on his heel and walked away.
Chapter Eight
Addy wanted to dance with Vickers. Damn him for asking so consistently—he’d turned the idea into forbidden fruit. Surely that was why she endlessly fantasized about it, about his hand on her waist, her skirts twisting about his legs and the two of them breathing the same air.
Her problem was no longer that she didn’t know what she wanted, but that she increasingly wanted what she couldn’t have. A dance, a touch, a kiss, a story. The story—of everything that had left him so prickly and alluring and maddening and irresistible.
She wanted Vickers.
The futility of it soured her mood. She told Rosamond that she was wrapped up in a project and needed a reprieve from the social whirl. Surprisingly, her cousin didn’t object. It seemed she was undergoing her own difficulties.
She wandered in, one afternoon, to peer over Addy’s shoulder.
“So many? You have been busy.”
“Yes.” Addy regarded her work with satisfaction. “I included all of Muriel’s favorites and a few new ones.”
Rosamond nodded, but didn’t move. For quite a while.
Addy turned. “Did you need something?”
“Oh? Yes. I wanted to speak with you.”
“Will you sit down?” Addy turned her chair away from her desk and smiled at her distracted cousin. “What is it?”
Rosamond fiddled with her sash. “There’s been talk. People have noticed that you’ve struck up an acquaintance with James Vickers.”
Addy stilled. “What is it that’s been said?”
“Only that he watches you. He speaks to you at every function.”
Addy shrugged, hiding her vast relief. “We never speak long. We haven’t even shared a dance.”
“Yes, I suspect that’s what keeps the gossips merely curious and not bloodthirsty. It’s just . . . I remembered that argument we had over him at the beginning of the Season. I wanted to warn you to be careful.” Her face fell. “I don’t wish for you to make the same mistakes I have.”
Addy spoke gently. “What’s wrong, Rosamond?”
Tears welled in her cousin’s eyes. “I’ve been a fool. I never thought I’d be welcomed back into Society so warmly, nor that I’d enjoy it so.”
“Or that you’d meet someone like Sir Harold?” Addy nudged.
Rosamond gave a tearful laugh. “Who would have thought it? I know he’s no Adonis, but
She was standing too, now, he noted. She reached out to clutch the tree. He could see it in her eyes, the same curiosity that he’d witnessed so many times before. She wanted to ask. They all did. Everyone was eaten with curiosity. What had the Viscount done, to make his son hate him so? What was his sin?
Only one person had never asked. Hestia. He knew why. She’d lived some version of his hell herself, and didn’t need details.
But Miss Stockton—Addy—wouldn’t know. She was a child conceived in love and raised with care. Even her imagination couldn’t conjure such a monster as his father.
He tried to summon his anger, his disdain, the blunt, rude words he used to push away everyone who gave in to vulgar, idle curiosity. They wouldn’t come. He couldn’t hurl his usual retorts at her.
He waited.
She licked her lips. He flinched before she ever made a sound, waiting for the arrow to arrive.
“I’m sorry.”
He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes. They opened now so that he could stare at her.
Dangerous.
Not because she was the beautiful, curved, perfect representation of an angel mixed with an imp. But because she returned the favor that had meant so much to her. She looked past his facade and saw the hurt, the vulnerability.
And she didn’t ask.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He abruptly stepped near. He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her hard. Fierce. Possessive. Grateful. He tried to convey it all.
“So am I,” he told her.
He spun on his heel and walked away.
Chapter Eight
Addy wanted to dance with Vickers. Damn him for asking so consistently—he’d turned the idea into forbidden fruit. Surely that was why she endlessly fantasized about it, about his hand on her waist, her skirts twisting about his legs and the two of them breathing the same air.
Her problem was no longer that she didn’t know what she wanted, but that she increasingly wanted what she couldn’t have. A dance, a touch, a kiss, a story. The story—of everything that had left him so prickly and alluring and maddening and irresistible.
She wanted Vickers.
The futility of it soured her mood. She told Rosamond that she was wrapped up in a project and needed a reprieve from the social whirl. Surprisingly, her cousin didn’t object. It seemed she was undergoing her own difficulties.
She wandered in, one afternoon, to peer over Addy’s shoulder.
“So many? You have been busy.”
“Yes.” Addy regarded her work with satisfaction. “I included all of Muriel’s favorites and a few new ones.”
Rosamond nodded, but didn’t move. For quite a while.
Addy turned. “Did you need something?”
“Oh? Yes. I wanted to speak with you.”
“Will you sit down?” Addy turned her chair away from her desk and smiled at her distracted cousin. “What is it?”
Rosamond fiddled with her sash. “There’s been talk. People have noticed that you’ve struck up an acquaintance with James Vickers.”
Addy stilled. “What is it that’s been said?”
“Only that he watches you. He speaks to you at every function.”
Addy shrugged, hiding her vast relief. “We never speak long. We haven’t even shared a dance.”
“Yes, I suspect that’s what keeps the gossips merely curious and not bloodthirsty. It’s just . . . I remembered that argument we had over him at the beginning of the Season. I wanted to warn you to be careful.” Her face fell. “I don’t wish for you to make the same mistakes I have.”
Addy spoke gently. “What’s wrong, Rosamond?”
Tears welled in her cousin’s eyes. “I’ve been a fool. I never thought I’d be welcomed back into Society so warmly, nor that I’d enjoy it so.”
“Or that you’d meet someone like Sir Harold?” Addy nudged.
Rosamond gave a tearful laugh. “Who would have thought it? I know he’s no Adonis, but
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