order to view the whole of her features, he stretched his arm out along the back of the bench. Without taking his eyes from hers, he skimmed a finger over a silken curl at her shoulder. If she minded, she gave no indication, so he touched another. “Tell him your hair is like fire, your eyes like forest moss, but changeable depending on your mood. The green of plants in the garden when you’re happy, the brown of soil when you’re melancholy, the blue of the sky at dawn when passion takes hold.”
Those eyes that tipped up slightly at the corners widened. “I’m not going to say that about passion. You certainly have never seen them when passion takes hold.”
He’d seen even more, had seen them when she was aroused. Last night as she’d unraveled her hair, a kaleidoscope of heat, hunger, and arousal had turned them a brilliant blue. “Why the offense? Are you not excited by a fine aria? A beautiful sunset? The arrival of dessert? Especially when it includes strawberries.” He’d seen that as well. She favored strawberries. He’d feed her an entire bushel for one of her smiles.
She dipped her head. “I thought you were referring to something else.”
“What sort of passion did you have in mind?”
Her head snapped up, and her hazel eyes in anger comprised all the shades. “I think you know precisely what sort of passion I assumed you were referring to.”
Slipping a finger beneath the ringlets, he skimmed it lightly along the nape of her neck, felt the tiny hairs quiver. “Longing, yearning, craving.”
“You shouldn’t be touching me like that.”
“Slap my hand away. Or leave it, so we can know for certain what color your eyes become when you are stirred by desire.”
“You do not stir me.”
“Then, where is the harm in the touch?” Other than the fact that it did stir him to yearn for what he shouldn’t, and if he wasn’t careful in holding himself in check, she was going to know exactly how much he yearned.
“Why would he care about my hair or my eyes?”
“Because he wants a woman he can set upon a shelf and take down occasionally to adorn his arm.”
“All men want that. Don’t you want a woman to adorn your arm?”
“Of course I want a woman on my arm, but my pride in having her there would have nothing to do with the shade of her hair or her eyes. Or the delicate cut of her cheekbones or the long sweep of her neck. It would be because of her intelligence, her compassion, her boldness. I would certainly never place her upon a shelf to gather dust as though she were naught but a doll to be appreciated for her appearance rather than her mind. I would want her to share her opinion on matters, to discuss things that are important to me, to her, to argue with me, and on the rare occasion when I am wrong to convince me that she is correct. I would want her beside me because I valued her judgment, because she wasn’t afraid to be honest with me. And because she made me smile, made me laugh, made me glad to wake up with her in my arms.”
Sometime during his ridiculous diatribe, his hand had closed around her nape as though he would guide her toward him. With her lips parted slightly, she stared at him as though she’d never heard such poppycock. Whatever had possessed him to blather on like that?
He’d never contemplated having a wife at his side, had never considered the qualities he would want in a woman he might marry. Yet suddenly he did know what he wanted, recognized that perhaps it—she—was what he’d always wanted. Someone with a bit of competitiveness in her, who could look at a situation realistically rather than romantically, who would stand up to him. Tease him, scoff at him, tell him honestly when he was being an arse or should be better. Who made him want to be better. Who called to his better nature. Who completed him, made him feel whole, instead of only partial.
“What sort of things would you want her opinion on?” she asked quietly. “What important matters would you want to discuss?”
She sounded truly interested. He wondered how she might respond if his answer came in the form of a kiss. Of late, a curiosity regarding what it might be like to press his lips against hers had risen in him. To urge her