It was the first time she’d awoken in his arms. The predawn light was smoky gray with a mist that would clear as soon as the sun rose. The sound of the sea was just a whisper through the windows. Candles had gutted themselves out long since, but their scent still hung lightly in the room. He brushed a kiss at her temple and she awoke.

“Alexander.” She murmured his name and cuddled closer.

“Go back to sleep. It’s early.”

She felt him shift away. “You’re going.”

“Yes, I must.”

She wrapped her arms around him and held on to the warmth. “Why? It’s early.”

He gave a low chuckle, finding her slurred words and sleepy movements endearing. After lifting the arm that held him down, he kissed her hand. “I have early appointments.”

“Not this early.” She struggled to wake fully. Opening her eyes, she looked at him. His hair was mussed, from the pillow, from her hands, from a night of loving. But in the indistinct light his eyes were alert. “Couldn’t you stay an hour more with me?”

He wanted to, wanted to tell her he would spend all the hours of that day and the next with her. But he couldn’t. “It wouldn’t be wise.”

“Wise.” She understood, and some of the pleasure faded from her sleep-drugged eyes. “You don’t want to be in my room when the servants wake up.”

“It’s best.”

“For whom?”

His brow lifted, part amusement, part arrogance. It was rare for anyone to question him or his motives. “What’s between us is between us. I wouldn’t care to have you gossiped about or to see your name splashed in the papers.”

“As it was with Bennett.” There was a touch of anger in her voice as she pushed herself up, leaned back against the headboard and crossed her arms. “I prefer to worry about my reputation myself.”

“And you’re free to do so.” He ran a finger over her bare shoulder. “But I shall worry about it, as well.”

“About mine or yours?”

He wasn’t a patient man by nature. It was something he’d had to work on step by frustrating step over the years. Now he put as much as he could into practice. “Eve, there’s already talk since that picture of the two of us was in the paper.”

“I’m glad.” She tossed back her hair and watched him steadily. There was hurt. She wasn’t sure where it had come from or why it was so acute, but it was there. Hurt could so easily lead to being unreasonable. “I’m not ashamed of being your lover.”

“Is that what you think? That I’m ashamed?”

“You come to me late and leave early, before the sun’s up, as if you were ashamed of where you spent the night and with whom.”