room table, her head tossed back with one leg locked around his waist, materialized with a clarity that astounded him. In that moment, she had been an angel and a temptress. And tight. So tight that he had nearly lost the few wits he had left.
“My lord?”
Sebastian shut his mind to the seductive image and focused his fevered eyes on Catherine. She sat at his mother’s writing desk, brought into his study by the servants a quarter hour ago, looking comfortable and intent. His gaze roamed over her oval-shaped face, pert nose, blond eyebrows, and her lightly fringed lashes that blended with the backdrop of her pale skin.
What was it about her that compelled him to want to be with her, when he knew they must part ways in a few short days? Having her nearby brought an unusual contentment to his life, something he did not fully comprehend and, at that particular moment, chose not to analyze.
“Yes,” he said finally. The word emerged harsh, uneven.
Her brown eyes searched his features without a hint of the yearning swirling in their depths that he’d witnessed this morning. “Did you make promises to anyone besides Mr. Hayton?”
“Not that I recall.” He dropped his gaze to his desk and shuffled papers around. “Why?”
She bent over The Plan again. “Just making sure I’m prioritizing everything correctly.”
“When might the men you hired begin the repairs?”
Her quill pen scratched across the paper. “We still need to speak with Mr. McCarthy. He’s a competent carpenter in need of work.”
“I’ve met him.”
The scratching stopped. “You have?”
“Yes, Saturday afternoon, when I attempted to catalog all the repairs myself.”
“Is that why we circumvented the McCarthy residence?”
He nodded. “You should add a gate repair to your list.”
She looked down at her chart, her lips thinned in disapproval. “You might have mentioned that a tad earlier.”
“But I only just now recalled the fact.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Any others you’re only now recollecting?”
She was adorable when annoyed. “Not that I recall.”
Pulling a clean piece of paper in front of her, she dipped her pen into the inkwell with a little more force than necessary. “Tomorrow, I will present an individual task list to each of the craftsmen. In the meantime, please do not feel as though you need to entertain me. I’m sure you have more pressing matters to attend.”
She had provided him with a perfect opportunity to escape the erotic images he failed to stop. But he remained rooted in his chair, yearning for her in torturous silence.
Did she not think about their time together in the breakfast room? Did she not grow wet with wanting, with imagining them joined again?
Paper crackled, and he looked down to find the report he’d been trying to read in ruins. He had hoped making love to her would soothe the hunger burning in his loins. But one loving wasn’t enough. His body felt more starved than ever, depleted of an essential element he could not long go without.
Standing, he strode toward her, keeping a tight rein on the conflicting emotions roiling inside him. He didn’t want to want her. A young widow with a small child would come to expect more of him than he could give. Keeping his agents alive and England free from invasion was all he could manage. Getting involved with Catherine could put them all in danger.
So why wasn’t his body listening to the arguments of his mind?
Hearing his approach, she turned to look at him, and her eyes grew wide. Was her reaction due to his determined advancement, or had his mask slipped? Sebastian feared the latter, which did nothing to improve his disposition.
She rose and shimmied around her chair, as if that meager piece of furniture would provide adequate protection. He wanted to witness one glimmer of remembrance in those beautiful eyes, one sign she had not forgotten their passionate interlude this morning.
“M-my lord,” she said in a shaky voice. “Did I say something to upset you?”
“Hardly, Mrs. Ashcroft,” he said. “You’ve barely said anything at all.”
Her brows furrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand. We discussed Mr. McCarthy at length.”
Sebastian pressed beyond the warning bells and physical blockades. “Ah, but I’m not talking about the Irishman. I refer to this morning.” He stopped a few feet in front of her, the chair between them. “You do remember this morning, don’t you?”