In Your Arms Again by Kathryn Smith Page A

it unsettled her, in a warm, sticky kind of way. It was hardly the kind of gaze one directed at an old friend. Of course, they were old friends who had shared a night of intimacy together—some of which had been quite pleasant if memory served. Perhaps that was why she felt that delicious tickle between her thighs whenever she glanced in his direction. Did he mean it? Or was it simply a ruse to make Spinton reconsider trying to hire him?
    The frightening thing was, Octavia didn’t know which she would prefer. In her youth she had loved North so dearly—not just as a boy, but as dearly as one could love another person. He had been everything to her, and later she had come to mean just as much to him. And was this what it was now reduced to, a tickle low in her body? A heated look? It was disappointing and exciting at the same time; as though something had changed between them and not necessarily for the worse, even though that old camaraderie was gone.
    “Spinton, did you tell Cook to prepare enough for four?” Her tone was patently sweet, her question for no other purpose than to break the silence. Her kitchen staff always prepared more than enough food. It was as though the entire staff was on a mission to fatten her up. Either that or they were feeding orphans with the scraps.
    As usual, Spinton pinkened at her reminder of his duplicity. Like most Englishmen, he flushed floridly. It made him look like a young boy. “Yes. Everything has been taken care of.”
    Her faced stretched with a false smile, Octavia set her empty glass on a nearby table. “Then shall we go in?”
    Everyone murmured in agreement despite the fact that Octavia was the only one who had finished her drink. Once again she and Spinton led the way, with North and Beatrice behind. A spot between her shoulder blades itched and burned. Was it Beatrice staring a hole in her back or North? Her money was on North. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her since his arrival, even though he’d made a good job of pretending to. Why? The annoying male-female awareness aside, was there something awkward about her appearance that made him stare? Or was he simply making up for all those years of not being able to look at her? God knew she wanted to look at him, but there were very few women who wouldn’t want to gaze upon such unabashed male beauty.
    He hadn’t shaved before his arrival, that much was obvious from the shadow on his jaw. Most hostesses would be insulted, but Octavia couldn’t bring herself to feel such a petty emotion where North was concerned. She couldn’t even be certain that he had brushed his hair, though the unruly waves were considerably tamer than usual.
    But what did it matter if he was well groomed or not? He had eyes that were like a glacial pond, cheeks that were usually rosy even if his mood was foul, and lips that seemed perpetually poised on the verge of a smile—albeit a sometimes sarcastic one. He had seen and undoubtedly done things that hardened the boy he once was, but she didn’t mourn for that boy, not when the man he had grown into was so intriguing.
    She wanted to get to know this man better and she couldn’t, because she wasn’t supposed to know him in the first place. It was not fair. And yet, she could say to perdition with it and break the promises she’d made to her mother and grandfather. She could toss their manufactured charade aside and be honest about who she was and her relationship with North. So why didn’t she? Was it honor or duty that kept hersilent? Or was it the fact that she was a coward, afraid to jeopardize the relative comfort she’d come to expect from her life?
    Maybe it was easier just to go on pretending than to risk the consequences.
    Regardless, she could carry on for this one evening. She had to. Just long enough to convince North that the letters were nothing to be concerned about, that she was in no danger whatsoever. That, she could do.
    Dinner was hardly a grand affair. The walnut table