“Nothing about you is humble.”
“False humility is one of the seven deadly sins.”
He snatched a kiss, the kind that made Eleanor realize just how much she loved kisses. How much she wanted more. How—How desperate she felt. And if that wasn’t humiliating, what was? She had to regain her composure.
“We shouldn’t be kissing like this when Ada is just buried,” she said.
“I expect at least four women around the world died during the time I kissed you. If not more.” He was frighteningly good at speaking in an utterly unemotional voice.
“It’s not the same.”
“Why not? Are you telling me that you were genuinely fond of Ada?”
That question was a mistake, because she thought again of how critical she had been, thinking that she herself would have been a more affectionate wife, and tears welled in her eyes again. “If I wasn’t fond of her, it was my own shortcoming and my own stupidity,” she said, getting off his lap rather clumsily. She walked over to the black window and looked blindly out. “She was a very kind person.”
“Why do her virtues mean that I can’t kiss you?” Villiers said, rising from his chair.
“It doesn’t seem respectful.”
“Or do you think we shouldn’t kiss because Ada’s death leaves an opening for a new duchess?”
It took a moment for that to sink in, and then she spun about, took one step and slapped him. They stared at each other for a moment.
“I apologize,” Villiers said finally. “I should not have implied that you wept for any reason other than the obvious. I met the duchess only once, but I cannot imagine her uttering an ill-natured comment.”
“That was her greatest accomplishment,” Eleanor said. “She must have known…”
Villiers’s eyes didn’t even flicker. “Must have known what?”
She was tired of all the lies she had told her mother, all the lies she had told everyone. “That Gideon and I were devoted friends,” she said. “Before.”
“Devoted. And yet—he married Ada.”
“She had every accomplishment,” Eleanor pointed out. “And as I told you, his father’s will dictated his choice.”
“She had every accomplishment, except that of making people love her,” Villiers stated.
“Of course people loved her.” But she knew what he was saying. Ada was so acquiescent and sweet that one easily turned a shoulder to her, walked away, forgot she was in the room. “I’m sure that Gideon loved his wife,” she added, giving it emphasis.
“Perhaps,” Villiers said, without a smile. “More to the point, now that she has passed away, I believe that you have two dukes to consider as potential husbands.”
“Of course not!”
“He may be a fool, but not that much of a fool. I saw the way he looked at you.” Villiers pulled her into his arms again, which was just what she wanted him to do. “It was damnably close to the way I look at you,” he whispered. His mouth silenced her before she could utter her deepest fear: that Gideon had chosen sweet Ada because she was so sweet.
She had loved Gideon, but she also wanted him, and her desire disturbed Gideon. It made him uneasy. That certainly wasn’t the case for Villiers.
Villiers kissed her with the sort of passion that demanded that she respond, forced her to respond. Even now his breathing was ragged, and yet his hands were shaping her, teasing her, caressing her—trying to make her mad with desire.
What had frightened Gideon about her pleased Villiers. Though she really ought to call him Leopold, given the fact that he was rapidly becoming her closest…friend. If not quite devoted, yet.
As if he read her mind, he broke away and said, “Say my name.”
“Villiers.”