require anything? Salts? Wine?”
Victoria fought the heat in her cheeks and shook her head, unable to say or do much more. She drew in softer, calmer breaths, but her body still felt… numb.
Hurried steps echoed out into the corridor toward them and eventually paused. She froze as a tall, muscled figure filled her sight, now lingering close beside her. The crisp scent of mint surrounded her.
It was Remington.
Her eyes swept toward him and crept past the brass buttons of an ivory-and-silver-threaded waistcoat, which emphasized his solid, broad chest. She forced her gaze to creep farther up, past that ruby silk cravat, up to his full lips.
The moment she met those striking blue eyes, which still held so much wrenching unspoken romance, all of the blood drained from her head as if an invisible cork had been pulled. It was indeed Remington. Only older. And like a fine wine, he had improved with age.
He searched her face in equal disbelief and leaned closer, tilting his head toward her. “Victoria. I… Are you unwell?” His deep voice was low and lush with concern. And though his diction was still quite British, there was a soft hint of something more exotic and romantic. It was as if Venice had not only deepened the color of his skin but had also painted his tongue.
All of these years she’d endlessly plotted what she would say and do if she ever had the opportunity to see him again. She had counted out the many ways she would smack him, punch him, yell at him and, yes, even curse at him for making her suffer and worry day after day after day. Yet for some reason…all she could do was gape like a fish that had been pulled out of the depths of murky waters.
His black brows came together as he glanced at her uncle, who still lingered beside them. “Sir Thorbert. Must everything be conducted tonight? Clearly, she is unwell.”
Victoria blinked as the crisp scent of mint drifted toward her again from Remington’s evening coat. He no longer smelled of allspice. He smelled like a…man.
She swallowed and dug the tips of her gloved fingers into the wall. At least she’d worn her finest. At least she looked like a ravishing woman he’d forever regret wounding.
Her uncle sighed and patted Remington on the back. “I appreciate your concern, but we simply cannot postpone this. The sooner we do this, the better. You know that.”
Remington nodded and shifted toward her, his large frame blocking her against the wall. Lowering his head toward hers, he peered at her face and searched her eyes. “I realize this is awkward, but have you nothing to say to me? At all? Be it good or bad, Victoria, I wish to hear it. I really do.”
She shifted away from his body. She wanted to run and escape the intensity of his gaze, but that would reveal to him—and to herself—that he mattered. And he didn’t. Not anymore.
Remington lowered his chin against his red cravat. “Is it your intention to perpetuate my suffering with this silence? Is that it?”
Her cheeks stung. Perpetuate his suffering? His suffering? It was he who had left her to suffer all these years with his silence.
She clenched her jaw and refrained from smacking him. No. She was going to save all the smacking for Grayson. Her cousin had known all along, and for it, she was going to maim him. She was going to maim him, then bury him, so he might suffocate beneath the earth, and just as he was about to take his last breath, she’d dig him back up and maim him again. And then maybe, just maybe, it would make her feel better.
Regardless…she couldn’t stay here. Not with Remington still probing her face and her body with his eyes and a blatant disregard for the fact that nothing remained between them. She pushed off the wall and edged away, trying to maintain a sense of dignity given the situation.
Remington stepped toward her and reached out a gloved hand to help her. She jumped away, not wanting to be touched, and quickly rounded his towering frame.
He
Victoria fought the heat in her cheeks and shook her head, unable to say or do much more. She drew in softer, calmer breaths, but her body still felt… numb.
Hurried steps echoed out into the corridor toward them and eventually paused. She froze as a tall, muscled figure filled her sight, now lingering close beside her. The crisp scent of mint surrounded her.
It was Remington.
Her eyes swept toward him and crept past the brass buttons of an ivory-and-silver-threaded waistcoat, which emphasized his solid, broad chest. She forced her gaze to creep farther up, past that ruby silk cravat, up to his full lips.
The moment she met those striking blue eyes, which still held so much wrenching unspoken romance, all of the blood drained from her head as if an invisible cork had been pulled. It was indeed Remington. Only older. And like a fine wine, he had improved with age.
He searched her face in equal disbelief and leaned closer, tilting his head toward her. “Victoria. I… Are you unwell?” His deep voice was low and lush with concern. And though his diction was still quite British, there was a soft hint of something more exotic and romantic. It was as if Venice had not only deepened the color of his skin but had also painted his tongue.
All of these years she’d endlessly plotted what she would say and do if she ever had the opportunity to see him again. She had counted out the many ways she would smack him, punch him, yell at him and, yes, even curse at him for making her suffer and worry day after day after day. Yet for some reason…all she could do was gape like a fish that had been pulled out of the depths of murky waters.
His black brows came together as he glanced at her uncle, who still lingered beside them. “Sir Thorbert. Must everything be conducted tonight? Clearly, she is unwell.”
Victoria blinked as the crisp scent of mint drifted toward her again from Remington’s evening coat. He no longer smelled of allspice. He smelled like a…man.
She swallowed and dug the tips of her gloved fingers into the wall. At least she’d worn her finest. At least she looked like a ravishing woman he’d forever regret wounding.
Her uncle sighed and patted Remington on the back. “I appreciate your concern, but we simply cannot postpone this. The sooner we do this, the better. You know that.”
Remington nodded and shifted toward her, his large frame blocking her against the wall. Lowering his head toward hers, he peered at her face and searched her eyes. “I realize this is awkward, but have you nothing to say to me? At all? Be it good or bad, Victoria, I wish to hear it. I really do.”
She shifted away from his body. She wanted to run and escape the intensity of his gaze, but that would reveal to him—and to herself—that he mattered. And he didn’t. Not anymore.
Remington lowered his chin against his red cravat. “Is it your intention to perpetuate my suffering with this silence? Is that it?”
Her cheeks stung. Perpetuate his suffering? His suffering? It was he who had left her to suffer all these years with his silence.
She clenched her jaw and refrained from smacking him. No. She was going to save all the smacking for Grayson. Her cousin had known all along, and for it, she was going to maim him. She was going to maim him, then bury him, so he might suffocate beneath the earth, and just as he was about to take his last breath, she’d dig him back up and maim him again. And then maybe, just maybe, it would make her feel better.
Regardless…she couldn’t stay here. Not with Remington still probing her face and her body with his eyes and a blatant disregard for the fact that nothing remained between them. She pushed off the wall and edged away, trying to maintain a sense of dignity given the situation.
Remington stepped toward her and reached out a gloved hand to help her. She jumped away, not wanting to be touched, and quickly rounded his towering frame.
He
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