“Mrs. Wattings, I trust you are well?” he said to Sarah, who had just come down the stairs.

“You know I am, my lord,” Sarah replied, a grateful expression on her face. “Thanks entirely to you.”

“And Wattings, no doubt,” he said with a warm smile.

A blush stained Sarah’s cheeks, and Della suppressed a grin.

“Shall we be going?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.” Della strode over to where her cloak hung on the hook and was about to take it down when his large hand covered hers.

“Allow me,” he said, removing the cloak and holding it out for her. She slid her arms through the sleeves, closing her eyes for just a moment as he wrapped it securely around her.

This could be her life. This security, this comfort, this trust.

She just had to tell him how she felt. And hope that he felt the same.

Griffith wished she didn’t look so damned beautiful. It made not telling her how he felt even harder. Literally.

But he wanted to resolve the Baxter issue before he told her anything so that there was no possibility of that situation intruding on her happiness, or their future.

But still.

This evening she was wearing a blue evening gown that was cut low enough for him to see the swell of her bosom. The sleeves of the gown were so slight as to make calling them sleeves seem presumptuous—they were tiny wisps of fabric just clinging to her shoulders. Her gown darted in at her waist, then flared out at her hips. The hips he had caressed when they’d been in bed together.

Why weren’t they in bed together now?

Oh right. Because they had a party to attend and a former lover to pay off and emotions to be revealed. And there was the lingering niggle of doubt in his head following her reaction when they had been intimate before—she had shut down so thoroughly he didn’t know if it would have been possible to reach her.

When the Baxter matter was settled, he would talk to her. He was proud of himself for having the patience to wait—the Griffith before he met her would have just blundered into speaking his mind without considering the consequences—and he wished he could tell her how patient he was being in regard to her. But then that would negate the whole point of waiting to speak to her until things were resolved.

It was far more complicated to be a person in love than it was to be only absorbed with oneself. There were so many more things to consider.

But that was the point. He wanted to consider her as well as himself. He hoped she would allow him to focus on her, to consider her wants and needs and desires.

As he hoped she would want to consider his.

He just had to be patient.