Page 86 of What a Lord Wants

Dominick.Her heart skittered.

“Where’s my wife?” he demanded excitably, throwing his coat, hat, and gloves at the startled footman.

When he glanced up the stairs and saw her, he froze.

For a moment neither of them moved, becoming just as still as the pre-dawn house around them. But she could feel the energy pulsating from him, even from so far away, as he stared up at her, as if she were an apparition. A nervousness fluttered low in her belly.

Something had happened. He’d changed.

Not moving his gaze from her, he stalked slowly up the stairs toward her.

Each step that brought him closer only made her heart race faster, and she held her breath, the uncertainty for why he’d returned too much to bear. If he wasn’t here to give her his heart, if he’d reached the end of his patience and was no longer willing to live with the ultimatum she’d given him—a tremor jarred through her, so hard that her hand rose to her throat in a reminder to keep breathing.

“I’m home.” He stopped in front of her, so close that she could smell the familiar scent of him, of linseed oil and turpentine, and all of it mixing with the delicious scent of man. “You told me that when I finished the painting I could come home.” Slowly, he reached out to touch her hair, to caress a curl between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m finished.”

Her stomach clenched, so hard that she couldn’t breathe. As if knowing how much that small touch made a pained yearning swell inside her, he released the curl, but only so he could brush his fingers through her hair, sinking them deep into her tresses.

She squeezed her eyes closed against his touch. Her desire for him was strong, fueled by so many weeks apart. But her pride was stronger. “I said that you could come home only if—”

His hand lowered to her breast. Not a touch of passion or heated desire, but of affection and tenderness, and such gentle caresses that the reminder that had been poised on her tongue melted into a soft moan.

Despite the tightening of her nipple beneath his teasing fingers, she managed to catch back both her breath and her senses and forced out, “Onlyif you were willing to give me your heart.”

His hand stilled. For a terrible moment, he didn’t contradict her, didn’t try to argue with her—the faint hope inside her turned to ashes.

Gulping in deep breaths to fight back desolate tears, she pushed at his shoulder to make him step away.

Instead, his arm snaked around her waist and drew her against him.

“I’m home,mia bella,” he repeated, stroking his knuckles across her cheek. In the shadows, his resolute gaze never left hers.

Her shoulders slumped. Nothing had changed. He’d finished his painting and no longer needed to focus all of his attention on his art, that was all. He was free to return to her and have no fear of splitting his passions, because his painting no longer needed him.

She was still second, and always would be. Even now he smelled of his art, the same way a man might smell of his mistress’s perfume.

She pushed at him, to turn to walk away—

His arms tightened around her, pulling her back against his front, to cocoon her in his embrace. “I am home where I belong. With you.” He lowered his mouth to her ear and murmured, “I love you, Eve.”

All the tiny muscles in her belly clenched hard in response. She didn’t dare turn to face him. Instead, she kept her gaze straight ahead and concentrated on simply remaining on her feet and not crumpling to the floor.

“You are beautiful and vivacious. The most spirited woman I’ve ever met, full of life and passion.” His heart beat a fast rhythm against her back, so strong and intense that she couldn’t separate his heartbeat from hers. “I cannot for the life of me understand why such a precious creature like you would love me.” His voice ached with uncertainty. “But I pray to God that you still do.”

She admitted in a breathless whisper, “I do.”

“Then give me the chance to earn your love.” His arms tightened around her, although she couldn’t think clearly enough to decide if from relief or from fear that he might yet lose her. “I’m asking for your forgiveness, Eve.”

At what cost? Even now desolation pulsed inside her to know that while he might love her, he would always love his art more. She whispered with anguish, “But nothing’s changed.”

“Everything’schanged.” He placed a kiss to the side of her neck. The affectionate gesture twined up her arm and landed with a simmering warmth in her breast.

She shook her head. “Your art will still come first.”

“Not anymore.”

He turned her to face him. Through blurry eyes and dark shadows, she saw the expression of love on his face, and a sweet lightness soared inside her. An emotion she didn’t yet have the courage to name as happiness.

“I realized something very important tonight.” He strummed his thumb across her bottom lip, and that tender caress soothed each pained beat of her heart. “That I’m a damned idiot.”