could still feel those eyes of his trained on her—and something else. Something more. A subtle energy radiated from him, reaching her, enveloping her.
Why did I mention him spanking my bottom?
As the mortifying memory of that—and the vision of him actually doing so—ran over and over in her mind, the heat in her face intensified to scorching levels.
Certainly her words had not . . . titillated him?
The rigid former colonel was not that manner of man. He did not surrender to base desires and wickedness. She had not—did not—affect him. He was much too upright for that.
The walk outside was a blur as her mind whirled and her face burned and her nostrils flared, full of the scent of him: soap, man and something else that was inherently him.
Somehow they reached the carriage and Sinclair assisted her up into the Birchwood family coach. He rapped on the ceiling and the conveyance gave a small lurch as they started for home. Home? Well, not her home.
Birchwood House was not her home.
When she was a little girl, she had played dress up in Marian’s clothes, always wanting to be older, wanting to be like her big sister, pretending to be what she was not—a proper grown-up. The clothes had never fit, of course. They’d swallowed her, but still she had played. Still, she had pretended.
That was what Birchwood House felt like to her. Ill-fitting clothes.
She felt like an imposter beneath its roof. A little girl at a game of pretend. It was not natural. It would never be natural. Never be home.
It was Sinclair’s home. Natural to him. It was where he belonged as someday it would all be his. His and Lady Elise’s. A reminder that felt necessary for some reason.
Together, he and Lady Elise would reign over Birchwood House and all its haughty servants like rulers of a small kingdom.
That would be his life.
Hers would be somewhere else.
Chapter 15
Nora tried not to look at him as the carriage progressed. The air between them felt a little different since they left the surgical theater. Overly warm, stifling, almost . . . charged.
She studied her hands in her lap, then the seat squabs, then the curtained windows. Everywhere and anywhere but at him. Only it was not that simple when he sat across from her in the carriage. It was beyond difficult not to look at him when he was directly in front of her. The temptation was too strong.
Because she looked. She could not stop herself.
Except he wasn’t looking at her anymore, which should have been a relief, but it was oddly . . . disappointing.
Her regret was real, lodging in her heart. She studied him freely without that devouring look trained on her. No more dark and intense and smoldering eyes that she felt right down in her belly.
He was looking out the window, even though the curtains were mostly drawn. Only a small crack was left parted, allowing a trickle of light inside the confines.
Her shoulders slumped as she fell back against her seat, disappointed their excursion had come to an end.
They moved along slowly, the sounds of other carriages clattering outside their own saved them from total silence. The muffled sounds helped cover up the dead air inside the carriage.
Somewhat.
She was aware of the rustling of his clothes as he shifted his weight. The rasp of his breathing as he expelled air . . . as though he was beleaguered and grew weary of her company. That would be unsurprising. He probably regretted the outing and the public confrontation he had just suffered as a consequence.
Why would he not be weary of her? He was the heir to a dukedom. He was an important man now, and would only gain in prominence when he one day claimed his position as the Duke of Birchwood. He was a busy man. For goodness’ sake, he was courting a proper lady, the daughter of an earl, and learning dukely things.
He would not be a duke like her brother-in-law. She already knew that much. He would follow Birchwood’s lead and spend his days in Town and take his seat in the House and live his life in a proper lordly fashion.
Obviously he did not appreciate the unfavorable attention she had brought down upon his head. She winced. His association with her would not earn him any approval among his peers. That much was clear. If the ugly scene with that vile gentleman did not prove that, then there was Birchwood’s dinner party