Page 99 of Gone with the Rake

Something flickered in Art’s eyes. Was he working out a plan as well?

“Fine,” he said with a nod. “Then we go to London. Together.”

* * *

The rest of the day was spent packing and preparing for their return to London. With all their business taken care of, they agreed to set out first thing in the morning and retired to their respective bedrooms.

He didn’t know why they weren’t sharing a bed. He wanted to.

That night, when she had first moved into the viscountess’s chambers, he had been mad with… grief?

He hadn’t been himself for a long time—not since his father’s death.

And as much as he had tried to convince himself that he was doing well, that nothing was wrong, he now realized he had only been lying to himself.

It felt as though Rivendale’s letter had shaken him from the strange stupor that had enveloped him for days. He had ignored Lydia all this time. Pushed her away.

And now… Now, he didn’t even know what was happening between them anymore.

I guess it’s time to find out.

Resolutely, Art performed his nightly ablutions, then strode toward the adjoining door, determined to tell her just that. He opened it and nearly collided with Lydia.

She stood in her nightgown right before the door, her hand lifted mid-air, fingers curled as if she had been about to knock.

“Were you coming to see me?” he asked.

She lowered her hand. “Yes.”

Art crossed his arms over his chest, leaned his shoulder against the door jamb, and raised a brow. “Well?”

“And you?” she countered, jutting her chin out.

“I was doing the same thing, as you can see.”

Her breathing was slightly agitated.

Art’s gaze ran down her body, taking in every curve accentuated by the sheer fabric of her nightgown.

She swallowed. “What did you want?”

He shrugged. “You.”

She licked her lips. “I wanted to talk.”

Art shook his head, pushed off the door jamb, and stalked into the room, forcing her to step back with every step he took. She probably wanted to talk about their plan confronting Rivendale. Well, he didn’t want that. No matter what he’d told her, he would take care of it himself. He had failed her enough times already. He wasn’t going to risk it again.

He was going to deal with Rivendale. And he was going to come back. And then he was going to marry her.

“We can do that, too,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt. Later. Much later.

“Too?” She moistened her lips again.

“After,” he murmured, ripping the shirt off his back and tossing it aside.

“After?”

He smiled.