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and beguiling him. Beckoning him to taste, to sample, to indulge in her for one night, for many nights.
    Forever…
    Damien shook his head and chuckled low. He was utterly ridiculous. She’d done something to him, and the damage couldn’t be repaired. Everywhere he looked, every thought that crossed his mind—hell, he closed his eyes and all he saw was her, angry and flinging her accusatory words at him, all the while the hideous music playing in the background. Earlier at the pond, skating and laughing with Theo, she’d yelped when she nearly slipped and he’d been there. Catching her fall, he’d wrapped his arms around her, and her soft, voluptuous body pressed against his for a brief, agonizing moment.
    She tortured him. There were so many facets to her, a few of them new and intriguing. He wanted to explore them further. How passionate she’d been when he kissed her. The sounds she’d made, the way she’d touched him. Her soft lips and wandering hands… Christ.
    He could frig himself. Relieve this pressure with a few strokes of his clutched fingers. Spend into his hand with great, jerking shudders until he was hunched over from the power of his climax, spent and lonely. So lonely he would grow disgusted fordoing it in the first place.
    So he chose not to. He would let the frustration simmer. Let it irritate him so damned much he’d realize he never wanted to experience such a thing again.
    Ha. He was a fool. He would always want Celia. Would always think of her as his, if but for a fleeting moment.
    His Celia. Beautiful Celia. He shook his head. A man grew most melancholy when he brooded too much about the woman he lost.
    Of course, a man didn’t lose a woman he never had in the first place.
    A soft click sounded behind him. He turned but couldn’t see anything. The chair was too wide and tall, and he hadn’t the urge to stand and see what or who it might be. His temporary valet, perhaps? At his personal residence he did without, but the moment he arrived at the Urswick estate, the Danvers made sure he had someone to attend to his needs.
    They spoiled him. Having Celia so near spoiled him as well. He needed to resume his solitary life, and soon. He had new responsibilities to attend to. Managing the grand estate of the marquis in the French countryside sounded like difficult but satisfying work.
    So why wasn’t he eager to leave?
    Another click, and this time he knew it was the door shutting. Someone was in the room. “Who goes there?” He waved a listless hand. He hadn’t the energy to even do that. “I’m not in need of your assistance this evening, Roderick. Good night.”
    Silence was his answer. Footsteps whispered across the plush Aubusson rug, and the scent of sweetened lavender filled the air.
    Damien stilled, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles went white. He knew who was in the room. There was no doubting it could be anyone else.
    Celia.
    “You should leave.” He stared unseeingly at the fire. If she so much as rounded the chair and appeared before him, he couldn’t be held responsible for what he might do.
    “You don’t mean that.” The sound of her soft, lilting voice made his eyes close, and he leaned back against the chair, feeling weary. Weak.
    So weak.
    “I do,” he said without conviction, opening his eyes so he could stare at the fire once more. “It’s not proper for you to be inside my chamber unaccompanied.”
    “I’m a widow, not some virginal debutante. And you’re practically a member of the family.” She paused. Did she realize what she said? How she made him sound like a trustworthy, doddering ninety-year-old servant? “I won’t come to harm by your hand.”
    “Perhaps not, but your reputation could be in tatters if we’re discovered,” he pointed out. “Go, Celia.”
    “No.” The firm defiance in her tone was shocking. He’d never seen her behave in such a contrary manner before. “I’m not leaving, Damien. We must