He thought she might deny it, but it seemed Sesily Talbot did nothing expected, and certainly not when it came to tearing men to pieces. “You know, Caleb,” she said softly, his name on her tongue a particular weapon. “If you did decide to seduce me . . .” He turned from her, unable to remain still as she spoke, as the words etched pictures upon him—images that he knew better than to think of and that he could not resist. When she finished the sentence, it was with knowing laughter in the words. “Well, you see it as well as I do.”
He turned back like he was under a damn spell, only to discover that she had resumed her lazy place against his carriage. Ruining it, forever, it seemed. Because he’d never be able to look at that door without thinking of the moment that Sesily Talbot, cloaked in sunset, baited him so thoroughly, even as she remained perfectly relaxed against the side of his coach, as though she had no interest in the moment other than to toy with him. “See what?”
And then she smiled, and it wasn’t the way she smiled while flirting. It wasn’t the way she smiled at dinner or when playing lawn bowls. It was private. Personal. As though she’d only ever smiled for him. As if she were his own damn sun. And when she spoke, it was with perfect simplicity. “You see how good it would be.”
He felt his jaw drop, and couldn’t stop it, not even when, without hesitating over the cat in her hands, she dropped into a perfect, pure curtsy that made him think imperfect, impure thoughts. When she came to her full height again, she said, “Travel safely, Mr. Calhoun,” and made for the house, her long strides lazy and without care, as though she hadn’t just destroyed a man in the drive.
Christ. He would spend the rest of the night imagining how good it would be. And he would ache with a desire that would not yield until he returned to her and got her the hell out of his thoughts.
Which was never going to happen.
Haven found Sera on the porch beyond the library that night, after the rest of the women had taken to their chambers. She sat at the top of the stone steps leading down into the gardens, where lawn bowls and dramatic revelations had owned the day, a glass in one hand, a lantern and a bottle of whiskey by her side.
The woman he’d met years ago had drunk champagne and happily scandalized Society with her tales of Marie Antoinette’s breast molded into glass. She’d drunk wine and every so often sherry, though he could remember more than one occasion when she’d wrinkled her nose at the too-sweet swill.
It had never been whiskey, though.
Whiskey had come when they were apart. And somehow now, as she toasted the darkness, it made sense. She, too, was made better with the years. Richer, darker, fuller. More intoxicating.
Minutes stretched into hours and Malcolm watched her, avoiding the temptation to approach, choosing, instead, to take her in, his beautiful wife—the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—as she confronted the darkness of the countryside, dressed in a deep eggplant silk that had gleamed in the candlelight at dinner earlier and was now turned black in the moonlight.
His chest ached at the vision of her, stunning and still, lost in thought.
There had been a time when he could have gone to her and she would have welcomed him. A time when he wouldn’t have hesitated to interrupt those thoughts. To have them for his own. But now, he hesitated.
She spoke without looking back. “Do you have a glass?”
The question unstuck him. He approached, sitting next to her on the stone steps, as though he were not in a dinner jacket. As though she were not in silk. “I do not.” He watched her moonlit profile. “You shall have to share.”
She looked down the glass dangling from her long, graceful fingers, then passed it to him. “Keep it.”
He drank, unable to hold back the thread of pleasure that came with the familiarity of the moment. “I did not think I would find you alone.”
She looked to him for an instant, then away, returning her attention to the dark grounds beyond. “I did not think you would come looking for me.”
“Or you would have summoned your American to protect you?”
She gave a little laugh, lacking humor. “My American is on his way to London.”
No doubt to care for his tavern. Caleb Calhoun was many things, but he was not a bad businessman. “He should stay there.”
She was silent for so long that he did not think she would reply. But she did. “He thinks I am unable to manage here.”
His brows rose. “Manage what?”
“You, I imagine.”
“Do I require managing?”
She huffed a little laugh at that. “I would never dream of trying, honestly.”
“I think you could, without much difficulty.”
She watched the darkness for a long stretch, then said, “Caleb is willing to play the lover for the divorce petition,” she added.
Later, he would hate himself for saying, “He is a good friend,” instead of saying, There won’t be a divorce.
“He is,” she replied. “He’s willing to do a great deal for my happiness.”
“He is not alone.” She looked to him then, meeting his eyes, searching for something. Finally, she looked away. “What do you want, Your Grace?”
He wanted so much, and so well that he shocked himself with his answer. “I want you not to call me Your Grace.”
She turned at that, her blue eyes grey in the darkness. “You remain a duke, do you not?”
“You never treated me as one.”
One side of her mouth rose in a little smile. “Silly Haven. Didn’t you leave me because I knew your title too well?”
He hated the words. Hated that even in this quiet, private darkness, they were cloaked in the past. But most of all, he hated the truth in them. He had left her because he’d thought she cared for his dukedom more than she cared for him.
By the time he’d discovered that it mattered not a bit why she’d landed him—only that she’d landed him at all—she’d been gone.
And with her, his future.
She finally spoke, as though she’d heard his thoughts. “I didn’t intend to trap you, you know. Not at the start.” She took a deep breath, looking up at the sky. “That is the truth, if it matters.”
He set his glass down and took up the lantern as he stood, reaching one hand down to her. “Come.”
Her reply was as wary as the look she slid his hand. “Where?”
“For a walk.”
“It’s the dead of night.”
“It’s ten o’clock.”
“It’s the country,” she retorted. “If it’s night, it’s the dead of it.”
He laughed at that. “I thought you liked the country.”
“The city has its benefits. I like to be able to see the things that might kill me in the dark,” she said with dry certainty.
He remembered this, the way it felt to banter with her. As though there’d never been a man and woman so well matched. “Is there something you fear sneaking up on us in the dark?”
“There could be anything.”
“For example?”
“Bears.”
His brow furrowed. “You spent too much time in America if you think bears are coming for you.”
“It could happen.”
He sighed. “No. It really couldn’t. Not in Essex. Name one thing that might kill you in the dark in Essex.”
“An angry fox.”
The reply came so quick, he could not help his laugh. “I think you’re safe. We haven’t had a foxhunt in several years.”
“That doesn’t mean the foxes aren’t seeking revenge for their ancestors.”