his jaw tightened and he clenched his hands almost possessively at her waist.
“Monsieur Beaudin,” she whispered.
“He doesn’t deserve you.” The words were so emphatic and blasphemous, spoken there in the hallway just outside her uncle’s door, that they shocked her. Did he know? Did he have any idea that she was a prisoner in every sense of the word?
She searched his face, looking for the meaning behind them, but the momentary ferocity brought about with those words had gone and his handsome visage was impassive again. Still, she couldn’t stop the flush of pleasure they evoked as she settled on his gray eyes. They were dark like the clouds of a thunderstorm. She’d never seen anything like them.
“Who would deserve me?” She hadn’t meant to ask, but his intense stare had hypnotized the question from her.
That stare never wavered when he answered. “Somebody who’ll take care of you.”
His words were so pleasing she closed her eyes briefly to revel in them. She’d almost forgotten what it meant to be taken care of, to not wake up every morning and battle the fear that constantly plagued her. Life with Anton would be a gross continuation of her life with Jean. Never knowing when she might displease him. Never knowing when a remark might provoke him to strike her, or give her a week locked away in her room with scarcely enough food to sustain her. She’d learned to gauge Jean so those things rarely happened now, but with Anton she’d have to start over.
But Gray… She took in a long, shuddering breath. Gray was a protector. The woman who was lucky enough to be his would never know fear. There would be so much more. It was those thoughts of more that made her become aware of the impropriety of their near-embrace and slowly push herself away from him. His hands dropped from her waist with a lingering caress that she imagined was intentional, while her own hands reluctantly returned to her sides.
“I’m afraid the question of my care doesn’t figure into things.” She attempted a parting smile. “Thank you.” And she started to walk past him, but his eyes held hers a little longer. There was something deep and longing there, but impossible to explore. So she walked to the stairs while trying to pretend that she couldn’t still feel his hands on her, that she wouldn’t perpetually relive that brief moment in his arms. It was the only time he had touched her and she knew she’d never forget it.
* * *
Gray took a long, final drag from his cigarillo before flicking it so it went flying in a high arc into the street. The orange glow of the tip bounced twice before settling in the dirt to slowly burn out. He wanted his hunger for Sophie to burn out just as easily, but it wouldn’t. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t forget the hopelessness on her face that morning. He wanted to think of her as he thought of Jean LaSalle: cold, remote, arrogant. But she wasn’t any of those. She tried to be remote but her eyes gave her away; he wanted to know what they hid from the world.
Watching her walk away from him had been harder than it should have been. Even now he could recall the faint trace of honeysuckle she had left behind and how he had stood there breathing it in until her scent too had gone. The warmth of her body still clung to his hands where he’d held her.
He wanted to forget, but his eyes kept drifting to her anyway. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Nelsons’ mansion, they found her effortlessly among the other dancers. With her crown of golden hair and deep blue gown she could have been one of the angels on LaSalle’s ceiling. His gaze drifted down to the way the gown clung to her small waist and then the creamy globes of flesh that threatened to spill from its bodice. No, he amended, she was too earthy to be angelic. He forced his gaze from that temptation to her face. She was smiling, but it was strained and didn’t meet her eyes. They were turbulent like the pale,
“Monsieur Beaudin,” she whispered.
“He doesn’t deserve you.” The words were so emphatic and blasphemous, spoken there in the hallway just outside her uncle’s door, that they shocked her. Did he know? Did he have any idea that she was a prisoner in every sense of the word?
She searched his face, looking for the meaning behind them, but the momentary ferocity brought about with those words had gone and his handsome visage was impassive again. Still, she couldn’t stop the flush of pleasure they evoked as she settled on his gray eyes. They were dark like the clouds of a thunderstorm. She’d never seen anything like them.
“Who would deserve me?” She hadn’t meant to ask, but his intense stare had hypnotized the question from her.
That stare never wavered when he answered. “Somebody who’ll take care of you.”
His words were so pleasing she closed her eyes briefly to revel in them. She’d almost forgotten what it meant to be taken care of, to not wake up every morning and battle the fear that constantly plagued her. Life with Anton would be a gross continuation of her life with Jean. Never knowing when she might displease him. Never knowing when a remark might provoke him to strike her, or give her a week locked away in her room with scarcely enough food to sustain her. She’d learned to gauge Jean so those things rarely happened now, but with Anton she’d have to start over.
But Gray… She took in a long, shuddering breath. Gray was a protector. The woman who was lucky enough to be his would never know fear. There would be so much more. It was those thoughts of more that made her become aware of the impropriety of their near-embrace and slowly push herself away from him. His hands dropped from her waist with a lingering caress that she imagined was intentional, while her own hands reluctantly returned to her sides.
“I’m afraid the question of my care doesn’t figure into things.” She attempted a parting smile. “Thank you.” And she started to walk past him, but his eyes held hers a little longer. There was something deep and longing there, but impossible to explore. So she walked to the stairs while trying to pretend that she couldn’t still feel his hands on her, that she wouldn’t perpetually relive that brief moment in his arms. It was the only time he had touched her and she knew she’d never forget it.
* * *
Gray took a long, final drag from his cigarillo before flicking it so it went flying in a high arc into the street. The orange glow of the tip bounced twice before settling in the dirt to slowly burn out. He wanted his hunger for Sophie to burn out just as easily, but it wouldn’t. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t forget the hopelessness on her face that morning. He wanted to think of her as he thought of Jean LaSalle: cold, remote, arrogant. But she wasn’t any of those. She tried to be remote but her eyes gave her away; he wanted to know what they hid from the world.
Watching her walk away from him had been harder than it should have been. Even now he could recall the faint trace of honeysuckle she had left behind and how he had stood there breathing it in until her scent too had gone. The warmth of her body still clung to his hands where he’d held her.
He wanted to forget, but his eyes kept drifting to her anyway. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Nelsons’ mansion, they found her effortlessly among the other dancers. With her crown of golden hair and deep blue gown she could have been one of the angels on LaSalle’s ceiling. His gaze drifted down to the way the gown clung to her small waist and then the creamy globes of flesh that threatened to spill from its bodice. No, he amended, she was too earthy to be angelic. He forced his gaze from that temptation to her face. She was smiling, but it was strained and didn’t meet her eyes. They were turbulent like the pale,
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