She had chosen her dress with care. As with each evening that brought her closer to the impending close of their fortnight together, Hyacinth had prepared her toilette with an ever-growing ball of dread in her stomach. It was the last dress she would select with him in mind.
“Thank you,” she said, hating herself for the tremor in her voice. For the sudden rush of pitiful tears that threatened to unleash themselves and ruin the evening before it had begun.
Calm yourself, Hyacinth. This is hardly a love affair. If you wish to be a merry widow, you must harden yourself to parting.
He snapped the book he had been reading shut and held it up with a wry grin. “Poetry. My sad attempt to distract myself as I awaited you.”
“Did you find sufficient distraction?” she asked, moving toward him, drawn the way a plant was to the sun.
He was the light. He was necessary.
Impossible to believe he would no longer be hers.
Silly Hyacinth. He was never yours.
“Distraction, no. Words which resonate particularly this evening? Yes.” He replaced the volume on the shelf. “Time stoops to no man’s lure according to Swinburne.”
She stopped just short of him, near enough to touch. And so she did, cupping his handsome face, cradling his jaw. “How true that is.”
He pressed a kiss to her palm, taking her hand in his. “Time is our enemy tonight.”
“Not just tonight.” She drank in the sight of him, committing him to memory. “It is the enemy of us all, each day chasing us down, thieving one more day, one more hour, one more minute. When our gift of them is finite.”
He raised her fingers to his lips for a reverent kiss. “It has never been a bitterer enemy for me than now. If I had my way, I would prolong this day. Let it never end.”
Her heart gave a pang at his words. “You would grow tired of me eventually,” she teased softly, unable to keep the note of sadness from her voice.
“Never,” he vowed, his countenance going solemn, his stare hot and dark, simmering into hers.
How she wanted to believe him. But that was not the way of their world. Their arrangement was as limited as time itself. Nothing lasted forever. Not even passion. And there could be nothing more for them than what they had already shared. Hyacinth would never marry again, nor would she be a mistress. Tom would one day take a wife to please his family. They were two people who had found each other when they had needed it most, but their happiness was temporary.
This man is not for you, Hyacinth.
Nor are you for him.
This is all you can have.
She would be thankful for Tom, for what they had shared together, forever. Even when this night was nothing more than a memory that had faded like the bloom of a rose too long in the sun.
“Kiss me,” she said. “Make me forget this is goodbye.”
There were words she left unspoken, hanging in the air between them. Words she did not dare say. This was for the best, their parting. Inevitable. One day, she would look back and see all the reasons why. The dusts would settle. The road would be clear.
At least, that was what she hoped.
“This need not be goodbye, Hyacinth,” Tom told her, his voice thick.
“Yes,” she countered. “It must.”
He tugged her to him swiftly, their bodies aligned. Heaven help her, but she wanted to cling to him. To never let him go.
“Why?” His rasped query stole over her senses like a caress.
“Because we have agreed to a fortnight.” Her gaze dipped to his sensual lips.
His head dipped. “What if we agree to more?”
She did not dare. More time with him would just make her want him more. And wanting him was futile.
Hyacinth shook her head. “More will not do either of us any favors.”
“No,” he agreed. “It will not.”
His voice, like his expression, was mournful. Unless she was mistaken, he, too, regretted the conclusion of their arrangement.
“I spent too long trapped in a marriage that was abhorrent to me,” she said, the reminder as much for herself as for him. “All I want now is freedom.”
“And I spent too long chasing after a woman who never loved me,” he said grimly. “All I want now is passion and pleasure.”
She knew a stab of envy for the woman he had loved. What must it be like, to be the woman this man adored? For