was either suffering at the time he wrote them, or he was trying to tell her something. Both circumstances had kept her up long into the night until she had finally made the decision to seek out Lord Somerton’s help. That, and the knowledge that Jeffrey might still be alive if not for her absence.
Meeting the earl’s gaze, she said, “I don’t know that I can explain how they’re different, my lord.” She nodded toward the stack of letters. “In those words, I do not recognize the voice of my husband.”
When his features flattened, revealing the smallest hint of skepticism, Catherine knew she had failed. She closed her eyes briefly in disappointment before gathering what was left of her pride and then stood. She would have to find another way to decipher Jeffrey’s final scribblings. “I’m sorry for wasting your time, sir. I thought my word on the odd nature of my husband’s correspondence would be enough for you to at least read them, especially since your name appears more than once. But I can see I was wrong.” She held out her hand. “If you’d be so kind as to return my property?”
He scooped up the packet and strode around his desk. The closer he came, the smaller, more insignificant she felt. Then he stood before her, and the heat from his body reached through the layers of her clothing to her flesh.
Slowly, almost painfully, she lifted her gaze to meet his, and awareness stabbed through her center, splintering her mask of sophistication. An old weakness, one she had long since conquered, but not forgotten, washed over her. Oh, dear Lord.
Catherine’s intimate relations with Jeffrey had been sweet and calming, beautiful in their perfection. Not primal or compelling. Not hot and wanting. The earl’s big body and his I-can-see-into-your-soul eyes made her yearn for a night of mindless, unrestrained lovemaking.
She tore her attention away from his unusual luminescent eyes and focused on the letters. Always, she had sensed a volatile power lurking behind his cool facade. One that drew her, one that resisted all arguments of morality. Several years without a man’s caress had obviously taken a toll on her starving body.
Lord Somerton stepped closer. “Are you unwell?”
Yes. Never had her attraction for this man overwhelmed her senses so completely. Her urge to flee trebled. She gestured again toward the packet. “My lord?”
His hold tautened. “You no longer require my help, Mrs. Ashcroft?”
Catherine’s pulse jumped. Something unpredictable and menacing prowled behind his words. Dropping her arm to her side, she said, “Of course I do. But I sense your hesitance and I have no more time to persuade you to my cause.”
Her plain speaking caused both his eyebrows to arch high, and his eyes, a light blue mixed with steel gray, appeared to glow and pulse with an inner life. She had never seen such a startling eye color on anyone else and had always thought the uncommon hue haunting and beautiful. And impossible to forget.
“No more time?” he asked. “Why the hurry? Your husband was killed a month ago.”
Guilt slammed against her chest. Her love for Jeffrey might have vanished long ago, but she still cared enough to mourn his death, for her loss and for Sophie’s. “I know,” she said between gritted teeth. “My reasons don’t concern you.”
His lips thinned. “I am trying to understand the situation. I don’t often have a dead man’s wife sitting in my study asking me to read her private correspondence.” He waved the packet in the air. “So I must ask once again—what makes these letters any different from the others you had received from Ashcroft?” His features returned to their placid position. “I cannot assist you if you refuse to communicate the full extent of your concerns.”
“Please, my lord.” Not thinking, she gripped his arm. “Won’t you read my husband’s letters and tell me what you make of them?” She had come prepared to divulge the full scope of Jeffrey’s transformation and to confess the appalling circumstances of her marriage before his death, but now an unexpected embarrassment trapped the shameful words in the back of her throat.
He studied her face for several seconds before his gaze shifted to her hand. Catherine freed his arm, discomfited and shocked by her rash action.
Releasing a breath, he waved toward her chair. “Please, won’t you sit?”
Not until that moment had Catherine noticed the dark patches beneath his eyes and the deep grooves bracketing his full lips. Fatigue pulled at his handsome features, and