Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(39)
No, you did that with your insatiable need.
“I don’t want you to change your plans because of me. I won’t stay long,” he said.
Her feet wavered.
“Is there something you want to say?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin. “This . . .” she glanced at his beautiful, satiated cock and looked away anxiously. “Didn’t happen.”
For the first time since he’d returned, she saw a small smile tilt his mouth. She took a reflexive step back. She hadn’t been expecting that potent weapon.
“It happened all right,” he stated unequivocally. “Do you mean that you prefer not to make it obvious to everyone at Belford that it happened?”
She nodded, not meeting his stare because she wasn’t sure exactly what she’d meant.
“All right,” he said, jerking his underwear and pants over his thighs and hips. He settled back in the couch, but left his pants unfastened. “I can agree to that, if it’s what you prefer. It’ll give us time to figure out what it means, I suppose.”
“What what means?” she mumbled uneasily.
“Everything. What we mean.”
She gave an impatient shake of her head. “There is no ‘we.’ I’m going to bed.”
“I assume since you found me in here tonight, you’d checked my quarters first?” he asked from behind her.
She paused and cautiously peered over her shoulder. “Yes,” she admitted, seeing no way to deny it. “Your grandmother pointed out your rooms when she gave me the tour. When you weren’t in them, I came here. Anne said this was your favorite room.”
He held her stare. “Go now to your suite and rest. I think you’ll sleep now. But tonight—I’ll wait for you in my bedroom after everyone settles.”
She opened her mouth to deny him—God, how she hated his quiet arrogance. He spoke before she could come up with the most scathing response possible.
“I’m not saying it for me—or at least not just for me. You’re burning from the inside out, lovely,” he said, his voice hollow. “I know it’s my fault, but I see how tired you are. I won’t have you suffer while I’m here. I don’t want you to become sick. You’ll come tonight. You’ll come tonight if only because we have no choice. Not while we’re here together in this house. Maybe you’ll rest easier . . . and so will I for a precious period of time.”
Heat flushed her cheeks. She thought of denying him, but didn’t want to add lying to the sins she was compiling since Ian had returned. She said nothing, just turned and left the sitting room, silently praying all the while she’d find the strength to prove his arrogant assumptions wrong.
* * *
Ian watched her go, forcing muscles that wanted to spring into action and claim her into complete stillness. After the door had closed behind her, he glanced around the increasingly dim room. The fire was almost out. It was always darkest before the dawn.
He lowered his head and caught her lingering scent. He inhaled deeply, taking strength from the fragrance, and stood.
On the way to his quarters, he heard a click and a subtle, scurrying sound on the oak floors of the hallway. He glanced behind him and saw the maid, Clarisse, standing outside Gerard’s closed door, looking down as she finished closing the side zipper on her gown. Her head came up and she saw him standing there. She started. The shadows were so heavy in the hallway, he sensed more than saw her shocked embarrassment.
Neither of them spoke. Clarisse turned and hurried away in the opposite direction.
* * *
She slept better than she had in ages, not rising until twelve thirty. For a moment, she lay in bed, recalling all the tumultuous events of the previous night.
After she’d left Ian standing on the dance floor the night before, she’d searched through the maze of Belford, desperate to find the kitchens. Twenty minutes and two startled waiters’ instructions later, she’d found what she sought: Mrs. Hanson bustling around the gargantuan kitchen belowstairs, preparing some of the last touches on the lavish midnight buffet.
“Francesca!” Mrs. Hanson had called in mixed shock and pleasant surprise when she’d appeared. But then the sweet older woman had acted like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to stumble into the kitchens in all her finery.
Mrs. Hanson had given her a cup of hot tea and let her sit at the center island, just like Francesca had grown accustomed to doing while at Ian’s penthouse. Francesca didn’t tell the housekeeper why she’d sought her out in such odd circumstances, but Mrs. Hanson seemed to understand without words. She must have heard the rumor of Ian’s return. She answered Francesca’s random questions about mundane things, like the feast, occasionally interrupting their conversation to call out instructions to the catering staff.
Francesca had eventually gone back up, forcing herself to remain at the ball until past one in the morning, going through the motions of enjoying herself and fastidiously acting as though Ian wasn’t across the room. Ignoring him stole every ounce of energy she possessed.
Trying to ignore him, because it hadn’t worked in the slightest.
Once she’d gone to bed, however, she was surprised to realize she couldn’t rest, despite her exhaustion. There was no one left to fool but herself, lying there alone in the darkness, and Ian’s return had halted that brittle self-deception. Sleep had been an utter impossibility.