Page 95 of Stolen By the Heartless Duke

This felt different. This was not an act of desperation. This was something they both chose. His hand lingered lightly against her jaw, and she swallowed in anticipation.

His jaw flexed. His thumb moved once against her cheek. Then he stepped backward. The loss of his warmth struck her far harder than she expected.

“No.” His voice was rough. “We cannot.”

Her heart sank.

He turned away, running a hand over the back of his neck. “This has gone far enough.”

She swallowed. “I thought…”

“Lady Jane.” He interrupted her so gently that it hurt. “Please.”

The single word carried more exhaustion than command.

She clasped her hands tightly together. “I only wondered whether…”

He shook his head. “If I continue standing this close to you…” He laughed once without humor. “…I shall forget every reason I have for keeping my distance.”

She stared at him. He had admitted it. “You truly wish to keep your distance?”

He remained silent for several moments.

“It’s for the best.”

She understood then. It was not that he did not want her. It was that he believed wanting her was something he could not permit himself to have. That realization hurt her far more than outright rejection would have.

She forced herself to nod. “I see.”

He drew a slow breath. “That is enough for tonight.”

She looked down at her hands. Then she glanced back up, afraid to see the expression in his eyes. “Will you teach me again?”

His eyes softened. “Yes.”

He retrieved her cloak from the chair and settled it carefully over her shoulders. His fingers brushed the fabric near her collar.

This time, he was meticulous in his efforts not to touch her. Oddly, the restraint felt even more intimate than their previous embrace.

“I’ll take you home.”

She nodded. Neither of them mentioned what had almost happened. Neither of them needed to. It followed them all the way to the waiting carriage; an unspoken secret that neither could leave behind.

Chapter Thirteen

Hector lifted the crystal tumbler to his lips, letting the burn of the whiskey settle across his tongue before swallowing. The drawing room of White’s had begun to empty as the hour grew late.

Earlier, the room had hummed with conversations about parliament, racing, investments, and the latest scandals circulating through Mayfair. Now, only a handful of gentlemen remained, speaking in quieter tones beneath the mellow glow of the candles.

He stared into the amber liquid. His mind was nowhere near the club.

“You’re brooding again.”

Hector did not bother looking up. “I wasn’t aware you had become an authority on my moods.”

“I’ve had twenty years to study them.”

Ambrose settled into the leather chair opposite him, carrying two fresh glasses and a bottle he had clearly charmed from a steward.