she couldn’t move, mesmerised by the pulse that jumped faintly beneath the smooth skin. In an instant all thoughts of Arabella fled her mind—along with everything else but the desperate urge to press her lips against it. Aware that her own heart was beating in perfect time, she almost bit through her lip in anguish as she snapped the stud into place and immediately backed away.
‘Thanks.’ His tone was utterly offhand.
She swallowed. If he had noticed her lack of composure, he was doing a very good job of not showing it. Probably because it embarrassed the hell out of him.
Or maybe he just didn’t notice her at all.
‘No problem. If that’s all, I’ll go…’
Gathering up a handful of floor-skimming green crushed velvet, she almost ran to the door, choking back the ridiculous urge to cry. The dress, the haircut, the eyeshadow and lipgloss had been wasted. He hadn’t even glanced twice at her.
She couldn’t get away fast enough, Orlando thought bitterly. He had sensed her awkwardness, and from it could deduce only one thing.
His suspicions were correct.
Arabella had told her.
Blackness flooded his heart as he turned to her with an icy smile. Let her squirm with embarrassment at his helplessness. Let her see exactly how big a mistake she’d made last night.
‘Sorry,’ he drawled, in a voice of molten steel. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to do the cufflinks too.’
She hesitated, then came slowly back towards him. He could see that her hair half covered her face, giving him the agonising impression that she’d just stumbled out of bed—sleepy and tousled. As she bent her head over his outstretched hands he felt one silken strand brush the inside of his wrist.
Fire licked through him, searing his scarred emotions with fresh agony.
Her long, strong fingers worked quickly at the stiff cuffs of his shirt, folding them back, slipping the flat disc of century-old gold with its worn Ashbroke crest through the holes. He could hear her breathing, fast and shallow, smell the scent of crushed rose petals, with its whispers of summer and happiness, its memories of last night.
All things that he had lost for ever.
She straightened up and rubbed the palms of her hands down the narrow column of her fitted dress. Against the dark velvet the skin of her bare shoulders gleamed like mother-of-pearl.
‘I can manage the rest,’ he snarled, turning away.
‘You’re sure? Your tie?’
‘I’ve done it often enough.’
‘With one hand?’ There was a break in her voice that sounded like anguish. Or pity.
He swung round and felt his fists clench, the throbbing in his fingers reminding him afresh of the ostensible reason for needing her help. Picking up the silk bow tie, he hesitated for a moment as his mind filled with dense, dark fog. Then, trying to keep the hostility from his face, he turned back to her and tossed the tie at her.
‘No.’
She caught it, and for a second just stood—not daring to look at him, unable to bear his obvious distaste at having her so close. She threaded the band of silk through her fingers, twisting and pleating the expensive material, numbly watching as a tear fell onto it and slowly melted into the darkness.
‘Do I have to beg?’
The ice in his tone made her gasp. Her head jerked up, and she gazed at him through a haze of humiliated tears. He gazed back, his green eyes glittering with cruelty.
‘I’m sorry.’
Even in high heels, she had to stand on tiptoe to slip the tie around his neck. The proximity was almost unbearable. Staring fixedly at his lean jaw, she made a clumsy attempt to tie a neat, flat bow, but the pounding blood in her ears and the echoing drumbeat in her wrists, her heart, the top of her thighs, made her fingers flutter ineffectually at the heavy silk. She could feel the whisper of his breath fanning her brow and heard her own whimper of anguish.
‘I can’t—’
He swore abruptly as his hands closed over hers. His face was like granite. She was
‘Thanks.’ His tone was utterly offhand.
She swallowed. If he had noticed her lack of composure, he was doing a very good job of not showing it. Probably because it embarrassed the hell out of him.
Or maybe he just didn’t notice her at all.
‘No problem. If that’s all, I’ll go…’
Gathering up a handful of floor-skimming green crushed velvet, she almost ran to the door, choking back the ridiculous urge to cry. The dress, the haircut, the eyeshadow and lipgloss had been wasted. He hadn’t even glanced twice at her.
She couldn’t get away fast enough, Orlando thought bitterly. He had sensed her awkwardness, and from it could deduce only one thing.
His suspicions were correct.
Arabella had told her.
Blackness flooded his heart as he turned to her with an icy smile. Let her squirm with embarrassment at his helplessness. Let her see exactly how big a mistake she’d made last night.
‘Sorry,’ he drawled, in a voice of molten steel. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to do the cufflinks too.’
She hesitated, then came slowly back towards him. He could see that her hair half covered her face, giving him the agonising impression that she’d just stumbled out of bed—sleepy and tousled. As she bent her head over his outstretched hands he felt one silken strand brush the inside of his wrist.
Fire licked through him, searing his scarred emotions with fresh agony.
Her long, strong fingers worked quickly at the stiff cuffs of his shirt, folding them back, slipping the flat disc of century-old gold with its worn Ashbroke crest through the holes. He could hear her breathing, fast and shallow, smell the scent of crushed rose petals, with its whispers of summer and happiness, its memories of last night.
All things that he had lost for ever.
She straightened up and rubbed the palms of her hands down the narrow column of her fitted dress. Against the dark velvet the skin of her bare shoulders gleamed like mother-of-pearl.
‘I can manage the rest,’ he snarled, turning away.
‘You’re sure? Your tie?’
‘I’ve done it often enough.’
‘With one hand?’ There was a break in her voice that sounded like anguish. Or pity.
He swung round and felt his fists clench, the throbbing in his fingers reminding him afresh of the ostensible reason for needing her help. Picking up the silk bow tie, he hesitated for a moment as his mind filled with dense, dark fog. Then, trying to keep the hostility from his face, he turned back to her and tossed the tie at her.
‘No.’
She caught it, and for a second just stood—not daring to look at him, unable to bear his obvious distaste at having her so close. She threaded the band of silk through her fingers, twisting and pleating the expensive material, numbly watching as a tear fell onto it and slowly melted into the darkness.
‘Do I have to beg?’
The ice in his tone made her gasp. Her head jerked up, and she gazed at him through a haze of humiliated tears. He gazed back, his green eyes glittering with cruelty.
‘I’m sorry.’
Even in high heels, she had to stand on tiptoe to slip the tie around his neck. The proximity was almost unbearable. Staring fixedly at his lean jaw, she made a clumsy attempt to tie a neat, flat bow, but the pounding blood in her ears and the echoing drumbeat in her wrists, her heart, the top of her thighs, made her fingers flutter ineffectually at the heavy silk. She could feel the whisper of his breath fanning her brow and heard her own whimper of anguish.
‘I can’t—’
He swore abruptly as his hands closed over hers. His face was like granite. She was
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