“I’ve already read it.” When she gave him a surprised glance, Sloan said dryly, “I do know how to read, duchess. I just don’t often have the time.”

An attractive flush stained her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

When Sloan leaned forward to pick up the china pot from the silver tea tray that had belonged to his mother, Heather said quickly, “It’s tea, not coffee.”

“I’ll try it.”

“Would you like me to warm the pot?” She started to rise, but Sloan pressed her down with a light hand on her knee.

“Don’t get up. This will be fine.”

It was the first time she had let him touch her since their fight, and Sloan considered it an encouraging sign. Not pushing his luck, however, he sipped his tea and watched Heather while she read.

The companionable silence drew out, even though Sloan’s thoughts were anything but friendly. She was so beautiful, he ached. He could feel the relentless need clawing at him.

He could not have pinpointed the exact moment her awareness changed, but Heather looked up from her book to meet his gaze. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the anger, the heartache, the despair faded away.

Sloan set down his cup slowly. He had promised to keep his hands off her, but he was about to break that promise. He needed to touch her; he couldn’t help himself.

Hardly daring to breathe, he raised a gentle hand to her cheek and heard the catch of her breath. She sat perfectly still as the backs of his knuckles brushed her skin with a featherlight pressure.

Her voice was a reedy murmur. “I… should wake Janna … from her nap.”

“Janna can wait,” he murmured.

His fingertips moved over her skin, lingering to gently trace the shape of her face. Then, just as slowly, he reached out to take her hand and raised it to his face, pressing her palm against his cheek.

Heather held herself rigidly still, even while trying to repress the sensual shiver that ran through her at the stirring contact. When he turned his head, pressing his warm mouth against the soft skin of her wrist, her lips parted in a wordless protest.

She had feared this moment. Feared her own lack of willpower. Feared him. Sloan’s gaze held hers and she saw the tenderness there—compelling, heart-stopping. She could have resisted him if not for that.

She couldn’t move.

Sloan was caught in the same spell. He had only meant to touch her, then let her go. But he wanted to kiss her; needed desperately to kiss her. He wanted her to acknowledge her need for him as well.