When one is the rightful heir and the other wants everything just for himself. Josephine realised that she was caught in the middle of a succession war.
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He didn't say another word until they arrived at Tiffin House. And even then, it was merely "I'll see you at dinner" after he'd walked her back to the manor and seen her safely inside.
Then he went back outside. She crossed over to a window and looked out. He was strolling up the wide cobbled path that led to the manor, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent. Dejected. He appeared to be utterly dejected and so incredibly alone.
Why was he not seeking her company to ease his loneliness? It made no sense. He drew her near only to push her away.
During the late afternoon, she spent an inordinate amount of time preparing for dinner. She chose a lilac gown trimmed in Brussels lace. A string of pearls adorned her throat. Simple yet elegant. She wore her hair pinned into a stylish coiffure.
Based on her husband's reaction when she joined him in the library, she'd met with success at presenting herself in an alluring fashion. He stood by the fireplace, a white-knuckled hand gripping the mantel as though it was the only thing preventing him from rushing forward to take her in his arms. It was an incredible thrill to see such blatant desire smouldering in his eyes.
While he'd always provided her with attention, in the past two days the intensity of it was sharpening. She understood it completely, because she was feeling the same way. A tightening in her midsection that caused her breasts to tingle and her lower regions to shimmer. A need to touch him and to be stroked by him.
The heat was building, and she considered that when they did finally come together, they might ignite a conflagration that would set the bed afire.
"Would you like some wine before dinner?" he asked, his voice raw, the words sounding as though they'd been pushed up from the soles of his feet.
"Yes, please."
He released his death grip on the mantel and walked over to a small table where several decanters rested. Although his back was to her, she could hear the clatter of glasses hitting each other, like someone unable to control trembling hands. She watched as he grew momentarily still, the clattering absent when he continued with his task.
He turned back to her, and she discovered, much to her disappointment, that he'd successfully banked his desires. She took the glass he offered.
He tapped his glass against hers. "To your happiness."
"To yours," she replied, studying him over the rim as she sipped the dark red wine.
He took a gulp, then backed away, moving closer to the fire. Normally in summer a fire wasn't necessary, but this manor was ancient and drafty, and a chill lingered. She was tempted to step nearer to him to see if he'd take another step away. She thought she might be able to march him around the room with such a ploy. Instead she ran a finger around the edge of the glass.
