Page 48 of In Need of a Duke
“Oh, ow,” she gasped as tea sloshed over her teacup and spilled over her linen shirt and splashed over Ian. “My tea…”
He couldn’t explain it, but suddenly it was as if he were a boy, struck at the sight of a beautiful woman. His wits escaped him as well as his words, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.
“Sorry,” he said, reaching for her cup as she attempted to brush the warm liquid off his hands, and the teacup clattered to the floor.
Charlotte sighed and sank down to her knees, and Ian did the same, trying to pick up the fine china that had splintered into several large pieces.
“It’s only tea, Ian.”
“I remember how you like your morning tea. I apologize.”
She looked up at him, inches only separating their faces, her eyes wide as if he had just uttered something inane likeI love you. “You remember?”
Ian’s mouth was suddenly dry, like he stuffed his shirt in his mouth to stem the words swelling in his chest. He raked a hand through his hair.
“I never forgot, Lottie. I remember everything.”
She closed her eyes as if savoring the way her name left his mouth in a raspy rush.
He stood up and reached his hand out, helping her to her feet. Her hand fit perfectly in his, like it always had, and he was suddenly hit with another wave of longing and something else far more painful.
Regret.
“Would you like another cup of tea?”
Charlotte stared at the back of her hand still resting in his, her head tilted to the side as though lost in thought. Or maybe it was the same memory that had flashed before his eyes just then.
All those years ago, he had spotted her across a crowded ballroom with pearls and orange blossoms in her hair, wearing the most beautiful yellow dress. He had been struck then like a fool, his feet moving toward her before his head or his heart could catch up to him. He wasn’t certain what he had said, only that she sprayed lemonade all over his new vest before her lips had spread into the most perfect smile.
Just as suddenly, Charlotte withdrew her hand and shook her head on a loud exhale. Memories.
Ghosts.
When she stepped away and glanced at him again, the hope had long disappeared. He had done that. He was certain of it now, and for all his pretending, he did care to correct that now. But was it too late?
“No need for tea. And I believe you once instructed me never to worry about whether we could afford fine things. Don’t fuss over the cup.”
Ian bit his bottom lip, quickly catching up to her as she strode through the door and into the park. It was a beautiful April day, the spring sun warm.
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“Hmm,” she said, peeking over her shoulder.
He was certain he was going to hell for how he couldn’t steer his attention away from her bottom in those breeches.
“Remind me,” he urged.
“Stop staring, Ian.”
He stopped and guffawed, surprised at how direct she had grown.
She spun and threw her hands to her hips, wide hips that he wished to brace his hands on as he explored her body. Finally, after all these years.
Though her nose was scrunched in frustration, a smile played on her lips, and he vowed then he would gladly get caught staring at her fine arse for the rest of his days if it meant he could see her smile.
More.
He was a man starved for her. A taste would never be enough. But it had always been feast or famine between them, hadn’t it?
