His ungloved hand came to rest beside her on the seat, and she lowered hers to rest beside his. Slowly, slowly, their small fingers touched, hot, bare skin sliding together. Sarani bit back a gasp as the barest graze of his finger ignited the ember of memory in her core that was impossible to ignore. Impossible to forget.

“I want you, Sarani,” he rasped. “Will you come with me?”

The pure need in his words preceded the storm, now brewing inside of her.

A cyclone of desire and unfulfilled dreams.

And heaven help her, she wanted to steer the bow of her doomed ship right into it. She wanted to give herself over to it, to let it take her to destruction or completion. She did not care which. Sarani needed to keep just one part of him when everything shattered around them. Because it would…eventually.

Lies weren’t meant to hold up forever.

For now, she wanted to embrace the fantasy. Even if it meant lying to herself.

She gave the only answer she could. “Yes.”

Nineteen

She isn’t bloody coming.

It wasn’t his first thought. His first thoughts had been gilded in elation. In bliss. In brilliant, fiery-edged desire. But the possibility of her not showing up gutted him. She’d seemed so willing in the music room. She’d said yes. But it’d been nearly an hour of him having a bracingly cold bath and then pacing a hole in the Aubusson carpets of the drawing room, checking his pocket watch every time the long hand moved.

Maybe she’d run into Ravenna on the way or, God forbid, the duchess. Or perhaps she’d simply changed her mind. He could not—would not—blame her if she did. People were allowed to have second thoughts.

God, she truly wasn’t coming.

The tentative footsteps in the hallway had his heart pounding and his blood heating.

It was scandalous in the extreme what they were doing. An engaged couple could step out together alone, but not at night. If either of them got caught, a swift trip to the altar would be the least of it. But he’d dismissed Fullerton for the evening, and he knew for a fact that his mother had already retired. All that left was Ravenna, and she’d been angling to push them together for a while now. Any servant who saw them leaving Huntley House would hold his or her tongue on pain of dismissal without a reference.

Rhystan cracked open the door of the salon, and she slid inside, the sultry scent of jasmine flowing in her wake and making his entire body clench with need. If he wasn’t careful, he’d slam her to the door, rip the cloak and gown from her body, and take her against the walls right then and there.