Free When We Touch by Heather Graham Page B

love and desire?”
    â€œI saw Charles, and remembered him. And remembered that he was always kind, intelligent, and dear on those occasions when I had seen him before.”
    He leaned forward, uncomfortably close now in the tight confines of the carriage. “You didn’t think, aha! but he has aged . . . surely he cannot have many years left in him?”
    â€œYou are crass and disgusting—and all regarding a man you pretend to serve with love.”
    â€œI serve no one. I stand behind Charles because he is my kin, my elder, and an exceptional man. I’m being honest and practical. I’ve seen you give speeches and I can hardly imagine that I’m shocking you.”
    â€œPerhaps I don’t care to accept such impropriety from you ,” she said.
    That drew another of his humorless smiles. “As you wish. Still, I’m afraid you’re going to have to listen to me.”
    She lifted her hands with dismay. “It seems I am a captive audience.”
    â€œAll right, then. It’s obvious that you are marrying the man for his position, and most importantly, money. A marriage of convenience. Your convenience.”
    She smiled as well. “Sir, many a marriage is a matter of convenience. This marriage was arranged. At the very beginning, I was not consulted. Such remains the lot of many a woman who would be a wife.”
    â€œAh, but I do know your brother, lady. And for all his faults, he is not a fellow who would force his sister to anything against her will. And we are not living in medieval times. This is the nineteenth century.”
    â€œAnd you suggest that marriages are not arranged?”
    â€œI am suggesting that had you protested the obvious incongruity of this, it would not have come about.”
    â€œYou know, I believe that I will tell your uncle about this conversation,” she informed him.
    â€œBe my guest. But we’ve not come to the end of it.”
    â€œAs far as I’m concerned, we have.”
    â€œYou remain a captive audience,” he reminded her. And indeed, she did. The carriage, spacious enough, seemed smaller than ever. He dominated whatever space he occupied, and that was it. He was simply dressed that day, his trousers and waistcoat pressed black, his cravat a silver gray, and his caped greatcoat equally as dark. Perhaps it was the cut and style of the coat itself; his shoulders seemed to stretch the breadth of the carriage. But were he slender, he might have seemed to consume the space as well, for his eyes seemed to be a burning silver that spoke volumes and echoed and resounded with warning. She denied the shiver that rent through her, and wished that her gaze did not fall to his hands resting on the silver-handled walking stick he carried. They were powerful hands, neatly groomed, but his fingers were long and tense, and the size of his hands, like that of his shoulders, seemed ridiculously emphasized by the space between them. She loathed the man, and yet he seemed to awake something within her. As he ridiculed and she hated, she still found herself wondering with a wicked fascination just how those hands would feel on her flesh, what it would be like to have those fingers, gentle with tenderness rather than rigid with strength, trailing down her cheek, stroking her shoulder....
    She jerked her head and gaze away, staring out the window, praying she didn’t look desperate, or that, indeed, she hadn’t given the least of her thoughts away. There had been that one fleeting moment when she had seen him, when she had felt that sizzle down her spine and thought he might be the lord to whom she would be promised.
    â€œYes, you’re quite right. I remain a captive audience. Of course, I could shriek and scream and throw myself from the carriage, and then, when the police came and the incident was explained to Lord Charles, you might suddenly find yourself a captive audience.”
    â€œYou’re not going to do