It's Always Been You by Victoria Dahl Page A

They could only be friends. He must know that. She should say it aloud, but not now. Not when she still tasted him on her tongue.
    He cleared his throat and turned back to her, his hands clasped tight behind him. “Mr. Penrose insists I must return to London soon.”
    “Oh?” She tried not to sound relieved.
    “No weeping? No gnashing of teeth?”
    She tried to think of something tactful to say.
    He smiled briefly, as if to reassure her, but it did not hold. Within seconds, his mouth went straight and grim. “Kate . . . Is your husband really coming to England?” Despite the question, there was no curiosity in his eyes. No doubt. He knew. Knew there was no true marriage, even if he didn’t know the reason. “He’s not, is he?”
    “Does it matter?” she asked. Another statement poised as a question.
    “Of course it does.”
    “No,” she countered. “We can’t . . . I can’t . . .”
    He didn’t say a word, but his gaze never wavered from hers.
    In the end, she said, “I’m sorry,” and he looked away.
    “It’s very late. Thank you for a lovely evening.”
    Her mind was muddled, slow, and she only stared up at him for a long moment, marveling at his tall grace. They had fit together perfectly once—his lips just reaching the bridge of her nose, her own mouth always searching out the line of his jaw.
    Dazed, she watched him frown and open his mouth to speak, but he hesitated before he finally said, “I’ll return again before I leave for London.”
    A few minutes after the door closed behind him, she rose unsteadily from the table and put herself to bed, thoughts of his mouth swirling madly through her dreams.

Chapter 12
    Aidan eyed the Valiant ’s new mast as it was hoisted into place. The smooth wood reached toward the gray clouds that hung above them, threatening snow. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels.
    “Are you married, Penrose?” Aidan’s words floated toward the sky on white wisps.
    “Pardon, sir?” Penrose asked.
    “Do you have a wife? I assume not.”
    Penrose looked shocked to have been asked a personal question. “No, sir.”
    Ropes creaked as men heaved the lines taut. They were watching from the dock for safety’s sake, but if the mast fell, it would fall much farther than this. Aidan observed with a narrowed eye. “And have you ever been in love?” Silence greeted his words and he turned to his secretary. “It’s a simple question, Penrose.”
    Penrose’s face was slack with shock. “Sir, I don’t . . . that is to say . . .”
    “Well?”
    “I don’t know. I suppose I was once. As a young man.”
    Aidan glared down at Penrose’s smooth cheeks and slim frame. “Hm.” His blond hair glinted in the pale light. The boy was likely twenty-four or twenty-five now, but he seemed so young. “So you were in love once, but then it dissipated, correct?”
    “Dissipated?”
    “Yes. You ceased to love her.”
    “I—I shouldn’t like to be so callous. We did not suit.”
    “I see.”
    He turned his eyes back to the mast and the ropes that stretched from it. A dozen workers held tight to those lines, holding the mast steady. Aidan felt as if he needed the same ropes lashed to him.
    “Perhaps,” Penrose started before coughing lightly. “Perhaps I didn’t love her at all. It was likely an infatuation that simply faded.”
    “An infatuation,” Aidan murmured, trying to convince himself that this was just the word that applied. Even if it had been love with Kate so many years before, those feelings had long since died. This was something new and . . . temporary.
    By God, he’d had trouble turning his mind to business today. Last night her wine-flushed lips and welcoming eyes had been a glorious torment. Then her gaze had touched his mouth, and he’d been lost in the desire to feel her. Her skin, her lips, the wild disarray of her hair . . .
    He’d kissed her. He’d kissed her and known immediately that it was right.
    No, not right. It