He uncurled his fist from her skirts, loosening his grip, letting go. His warm palm covered the back of her hand entirely, engulfing it where she held it against him. The intimacy of his longer fingers threaded with hers made something other than her core ache. Her heart gave a tiny little squeeze, and that was alarming. She’d thought this was only physical. Simple biology. Nothing that consisted of sentiment. Nothing as complicated as that.

The carriage resumed, rolling forward and jarring her.

They both blinked, severing the spell, for it did feel like a spell. Some enchantment that had thoroughly addled her and made her forget herself—just as he clearly had forgotten himself. There had been nothing of him in this. No glimpse of the taciturn colonel-turned-duke-to-be. No, he’d been as primitive as the beast in the woods.

But that was gone. The carriage was moving again, and Sinclair was back in all his austerity. His hands briefly gripped her waist and set her on the seat opposite from him, his touch perfunctory and brief.

The carriage rolled to a smooth stop. For a moment Nora thought they were delayed again due to congestion, but then she realized they had arrived at Birchwood House.

“We’re here,” he said unnecessarily, his voice almost overly loud in the closed confines.

Sinclair extended an arm to open the carriage door, reaching it before the groom could. He exited and hopped down deftly, stretching out both hands to assist her. She descended, feeling giddy and breathless from the day’s outing. Once beside him, he offered his arm and she accepted, nestling her gloved fingers in the crook of his elbow.

The air between them still felt thick and charged as they made their way up the steps and inside the house. A pair of footmen stepped forward to collect their gloves and hats.

She tried not to look at Sinclair as she slipped her gloves from her fingers and handed them off to the stoic-faced footman.

She tried, not so valiantly, to not think of those moments earlier in their carriage. When they had been alone and his face had been so close that she could admire the sooty length of his lashes. When he had hauled her onto his lap and seemed like he wanted to kiss her and get his hands under her skirts. Heavens. He’d behaved like he wanted to tear those skirts off her. She dragged in a heavy breath, suddenly feeling overly warm. Goodness. She needed to find Bea and start packing.

She had just untied the ribbons of her bonnet and removed it from her head when the housekeeper appeared, breathless and holding her side as though she suffered a stitch. “Mr. Sinclair. Miss Langley. Thank goodness you’re both home.”

“What is it, Mrs. Blankenship?” Sinclair asked.

“It’s the duchess. She’s ill and taken to her bed.”