“You know, Everton.” His name on her lips clearly sent a jolt of energy through him. He had been using hers for so long. Why had she been denying herself the pleasure? The rise and fall of his chest as she said it made her wonder how often he heard his name. Always Lord Bryant—or Bryant to those who considered themselves his equal or were being insolent—but never Everton. Lord Bryant was the insufferable rogue. Bryant was a haughty aristocrat. But Everton was the man standing in front of her, alarmed by her uncovered hands. “When you held my hand in the storage room, I had the strangest feeling my hand belonged in yours.”

She reached for his left hand, hanging limp at his side, and lifted it, cupping it in both of hers. She softly traced the narrow strip of exposed skin on the inside of his wrist with her thumb. He had threatened once to kiss her there, and she had never looked at her wrist the same since. If she could possibly affect him the same way, she would take the risk.

His hand was that of a gentleman, his long fingers smooth and uncalloused. One tiny white scar, shaped like the tip of an arrow, graced the back, just between his thumb and index finger. She ran her fingers over it. “What is that from?”

Everton released the door handle. “I don’t remember.”

She pulled his hand to her mouth and gently kissed the scar.

His eyes closed at her touch, but he didn’t jerk away like he had earlier. Emboldened, she kissed the inside of his wrist, his pulse raced under her touch, and for a moment, she allowed herself to breathe in the bold, spicy scent of him. She lifted her head and intertwined her fingers in his. A prickle of excitement ran up her arm. She had held Lord Bryant’s hand before. Heavens—she had even kissed him before, but this was different.

This was real.

And more than anything in the world, she wanted to know if he felt the same way.

His eyes flashed open, and they were on fire.

But his chest still rose and fell in a pattern that resonated fear.

“Diana.”

She tightened her fingers. “Yes.”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“Hold my hand?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all right. I’ll hold yours.”

His face crumpled, warring emotions raging behind his eyes. His grip on her hand became uncomfortably tight, and his breathing raced.

“Everton?”

“I’m all right.”

“Do you need to sit down?”

“I think I need you to stop touching me.” His hand still grasped hers securely. She couldn’t pull away, nor did she want to.

“I could do that.” His eyes widened, and if anything, his grip tightened in hers. “Or I could touch you a bit more so you can grow accustomed to it.”

His grip relaxed enough to no longer be painful, but it was still firm. He didn’t drop her hand. “How do you come up with such ridiculous ideas?”