Page 59 of Dearest Beast
He glanced down at her. “Beg pardon?”
“I’m coming to assist you,” she told him, as if such was wanted. Or a good idea.
“You don’t need—” he started to protest.
“I’m quite awake as well,” she argued. “While I admit this is not my area of skill, I’m perfectly content and ready to take your direction.”
“Are you?” he asked, raising a brow, unable to ignore the almost certainly unintentional but highly naughty way in which her words could be interpreted.
He caught her eye, and her smile twisted in wry amusement, as if she could somehow read his thoughts. Or was thinking along the same line. Which was… highly unlikely. And not something he should be thinking about at all.
“You’ll just have to find out,” she told him.
And despite everything, Roger’s senses prickled with foolish desire. Even if he could never act on that desire again, for the first time since that night in the Liras’ library, he felt, well, fully alive.
“Yes, I will,” he murmured. “I most certainly will.”
An hour later, Roger stood back and inspected the far side of his hothouse, which, while sadly empty, was once again completely clean. And ready for the possibility of new growth. If he could muster the strength to begin again.
They’d worked quickly and quietly, with him careful to keep his distance the entire time and focus on his task and not on the woman lest he became distracted.
No, he did not stare. Not at how her chest rose when she stretched to repin the red wavy tendrils, which had come loose from their holdings. Nor how nimbly her long, elegant fingers worked. And certainly not when she bent down on her knees and leaned forward to sweep errant dirt into a dustpan.
“I suppose we are done,” Miss Adler said, coming to his side.
“Yes. For now,” he told her, working hard not to meditate on her nearness. “I’ll place the salvageable blooms in some water for tonight and replant tomorrow.” He walked toward the pile, away from her, brushing his hands glancing back in her direction. “Thank you, Miss Adler,” he told her as formally as he could. “For all your help this evening.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, her expressive eyes wide. As if his polite expression of gratitude was foreign to her.
Or perhaps it was he who was surprised, both by the sincerity of it, but also in the fact that her help had not merely been useful, but… pleasant.
Or more, that he desired it again. Both the way he’d enjoyed her pleasantness and approval that night in the library and how they’d been now. As almost… friends.
Even if he should and could not want such a thing.
“Well, good night,” he said out loud, turning so he could exit first because if he did not, he feared he would not exit at all.
“Good night,” she called after him, as he retreated, somehow feeling more like a failure than he had before.
An hour later, Roger could not stop thinking about Miss Adler, nor the odd sense of regret he felt walking away from her, even as he rose from his tub and patted down his body with a cloth.
What was the matter with him?
What did he want? Glancing down at his own body, he knew whatitwanted, but that was out of the question.
Miss Adler was his guest.
And a terrible idea.
She was a completely improper companion for him in any respect—setting aside the lustful thoughts she elicited—whether colleague, friend, or even sparring partner.
And yet, she challenged him more than anyone who was considered his equal.
Madness.
Worse, despite all his control and practice, he required cold, not hot, water to fully settle himself. If he kept this up, his staff would notice, and worse, talk. Good gossip, regardless of commandments, was a temptation that even the strongest loyalties could overcome.
Not something he could risk. Especially on the eve of his betrothal to Miss Teres—the woman he should be thinking about. Would be thinking about, soon enough.
