he’d barely stifled the impulse to embrace her. His palms still ached with the prurient urge, so he clenched them, hoping to squash the feeling. He was amazed that she could still elicit such a reaction.
He eyed the bright, hand-painted wallpaper longingly and imagined pulverizing one of the cabbage roses beneath his fist. Reason reminded him that it would be unwise to damage his host’s home, and he suspected that Vinedale would be disappointed after the trouble he’d taken to secure the invitation.
Daniel had known when he returned to London that he was likely to run into her. When he’d begun to receive invitations to tonnish events, he knew the odds would only increase. But the reality was not as he had anticipated.
When he had looked down to assess the woman who’d run into him, he’d ended up immobilized, clenching her arms instinctively to keep her from falling but staring as if he’d seen a ghost.
The only person he’d ever met with eyes the color of Chinese jade was Charlotte Fortney; the only woman he’d ever given his heart. And, subsequently, had it broken.
When his stunned mind began to work again and he realized that the woman before him really was Charlotte, he’d gone as cold as a corpse because none of the preparation had done him a whit of good. He’d just stood there gawping like a schoolboy.
Watching the raw emotions cross her face, he wondered if she knew the hardships he’d faced? The life he’d been consigned to?
When the emotions had turned to horror and her complexion had leeched of all color, he might as well have taken a punch to the gut. Clearly she was horrified to see her once-spurned lover. Had she encouraged her family to dispose of him to one of the most unpleasant corners of the world?
So, he’d snapped at her, unable to contain the turmoil of decades. And when he thought he couldn’t stand the thick silence that knit between them, she had spoken with her mother’s cool hauteur and called him Mr. Walsh.
Mr. Walsh! What an affront that was after years of her ragged, lusty whispers echoing in his memory. Haunting him.
Oh, Danny! Yes!
And he knew that he had to escape her presence before he seized her by the shoulders and shook her until her hair fell down and he could see if it was even longer than he remembered.
Now he stood in some strange room packed with the gaudy, gilt-covered furniture of the prior century trying to regain his composure, and he wondered how in the hell he could face her again with civility, when every animalistic impulse raged to reclaim her.
Slowly he released his grip on the bureau, and he stared at the dark, red-brown wood gleaming in the lamplight. Mahogany. Even if it had been bastardized with baroque whimsy, the bureau was a stout piece of furniture. Sturdy.
So, he balled up his fist and smashed it into the flat, glossy top. Over and over, until his knuckles split and blood spilled upon the surface.
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