Free The Secrets of Mia Danvers by Robyn DeHart Page B

long to see more than his eyes, precisely the color. She could feel the shape, the sharp arch of his eyebrow, the gentle way his lashes brushed her fingertips as she traced the shape of his eyelid. Deep-set and intense.
    It was beginning to feel as if this exploration was less about showing him something, and more about her having the excuse to run her hands all over him. Quickly, she moved onto his hair, noting that it curled behind his ears. She stood up on her tiptoes to reach further into his locks, feeling thick waves, cut short, no doubt, to control the texture. Her hand moved over to his forehead, his nose, every touch, every line and plane illustrating the image in her mind.
    He was handsome. Exquisitely so.
    Of course she’d known that. She’d seen him a few times when she’d been a girl. He’d been a handsome young man then, and oh so proud. It would seem that nothing much had changed.
    “You are very handsome,” she told him. “Quite dashing, really.” Though she knew both compliments didn’t do him justice. Though she couldn’t compare him to other men, she knew he must be one of the most attractive men in all of London. There was no reason to say that, though.
    “That is enough,” he said tightly, though she didn’t hear anger in his tone. He grabbed her hand, and the other one as well so that he held both wrists, pinning her in front of him.
    And for the briefest of moments she would have sworn he’d bent close, intent on kissing her. Mia sucked in her breath and waited for the touch of his lips.
    But then he was gone.
    He stepped away, creating a swath of coldness between them.
    “I will send someone to retrieve you,” he said. “When the inspector arrives at Danbridge.”
    “That’s not necessary. I can find my own way,” she said.
    “Six o’clock this evening,” he reminded her.
    “Yes. I’ll be there.”
    “Please be prompt this time,” he said.
    “Six o’clock,” she repeated. She went and sat again in front of her sculpture, picked up the bust and her tool, but she made no carvings. Alex still stood somewhere behind her. Not certain if he was watching her, she moved her hand over the clay a few times so he wouldn’t know she was utterly distracted by his heady scent. Until he walked away, she could not return to work.
    Had he actually intended to kiss her?
    She’d never entertained the idea that such a thing could happen. Not simply because she had never been kissed. Truth be told, she rarely had opportunity to engage in conversation with a man, let alone give thought to the possibility of romantic notions.
    In town when she went to sell her sculptures, she always brought Rachel with her to do her talking because people often became uncomfortable once they realized she was blind. People didn’t know how to talk to her, what to say. So she gave them the easy way out and took that option away from them.
    Until this very moment with Alex she’d never imagined the possibility of being with a man. Of course, as a girl, she had dreamt of such a thing happening. She’d read enough romantic stories in her youth to know about the fantasies of the man who rode in to save the woman and fell in love with her beauty and swore to keep and protect her. When she’d first come to live at the cottage, she’d often lain in her bed and dreamt of the day when such a man would come riding up and seek her hand and her company. No such thing had ever happened. So eventually she’d stopped dreaming about it all together.
    But he had almost kissed her, hadn’t he?
    She couldn’t deny the fact that she found him utterly intriguing. There was something about Lord Carrington, and though she didn’t want to admit it, she was drawn to him. Drawn to the deep timbre of his voice, though the curt tone instructed her to stay at bay.
    Perhaps she was deluding herself. Perhaps it wasn’t him at all and he was merely the man who’d offered her refuge the night she’d witnessed such cruelty and