Page 98 of Winterset
“I am.”
He took a slow step forward. “Under normal circumstances, I would court you. But given our situation, I don’t know how to go about this.”
“Nor I. But together we will figure it out.”
“Perhaps we can meet in the dining hall for breakfast,” he suggested.
“And in the drawing room before dinner,” I said.
He nodded. “We can walk in the garden every afternoon.”
“And play cards by candlelight every evening.”
He smiled. “I would like that very much.”
“Me too.”
“And if you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
He stepped even closer to me. Close enough that I could feel the heat of his body and see the desire in his eyes. I had not imagined it. He wanted me too.
Oliver ducked his head slightly toward me. To say something more? To kiss me? I would never know because we were interrupted by a knock at the library door. Jarred back to reality, Oliver cleared his throat and put proper distance between us. “Come in,” he called.
Bexley peeked inside the library, his gaze moving between us. “Your guests should be arriving soon, sir.”
“Thank you, Bexley,” Oliver said, and then he turned to me. “May I walk you upstairs?”
I took his offered arm.
We silently ascended the stairs, and when we reached the top, he led me down the corridor to the attic door. The space was not wide, nor was it well lit.
When we reached the door, he touched my elbow, gently turning me to face him. “I dislike that you must hide in the attic,” he said.
I did, too, but saying so would not change the fact that it was necessary. “I’ve hidden in the attic for two years. What is one more night?”
He looked pained. “Promise me you’ll stay hidden. If anyone sees you—”
“I promise,” I said. “You’ve worked hard to make this night a success. Don’t waste it worrying about me.”
“I willalwaysworry about you,” he whispered.
“You needn’t. I will be fine. Your guests will arrive soon. You should go,” I said, though I did not want him to.
“I should,” he agreed, though he did not move.
“Oliver.” I forced a smile I didn’t feel. “Go.”
He took a slow backward step.
“Wait,” I said, stopping him. “Your ... cravat is crooked.” It was a pathetic excuse to prolong his parting—Oliver was nothing if not precise with his appearance—but he immediately came closer and lifted his chin.
My hands rose to his cravat. The fabric was stiffly starched and free of wrinkles. If I touched it, it would crease. I couldn’t do that to him tonight.
Candlelight flickered in his eyes. “Forgive me, I was mistaken. Your cravat is perf—”
Oliver tugged his cravat.
