CHAPTER 7

DARKNESS HAD ALREADY fallen when the train entered the city of York. Thalia yawned sleepily and attempted to surreptitiously stretch her back. She was tired, and her shoulders were tense. No doubt the result of hours traveling in an uncomfortable corset. And that occurred despite the plush accommodations of the marquess's luxurious coach. She didn't want to think what condition she would be in if she had traveled in the second-class wagon as she had intended.

She looked at Liam, who was meticulously putting away all his sculpting tools and supplies in preparation for their arrival. When he cleared the table, the servant immediately came to wipe and put the table away. The marquess looked as fresh and rested as when they first started the journey. It seemed incredibly unfair, but the comfort of gentlemen's attire greatly exceeded that of women's clothing! As the day progressed, he kept discarding garments with the casual carelessness of someone accustomed to wearing fewer layers, until he ended up in a tempting state of dishabille.

His necktie was the first to go, followed by his waistcoat. His shirt gaped open at the neck to reveal a sliver of muscled chest dusted with golden hair. At some point, he had also removed his shoes, and now he pranced around in stockinged feet. She had never seen a gentleman in such a state of undress. Not even her husband, who had always appeared dressed for an audience with the queen.

As she had spoken her thoughts aloud, the object of her musings said, "You should have made use of the sleeping berth, as I recommended."

Not a chance. The ‘berth' as he called it, proved to be a sumptuous bed fit for a king. She could not possibly lie on it without thinking about its owner just a few feet away, and imagining all the wicked things they could do in that bed. She really was in a bad state. Had she stooped so low as to salivate over a handsome gentleman as if she were a starving she-wolf? The ridiculous image made her smile despite the unflattering comparison.

"I am perfectly fine, Liam." God, how she loved saying his name. Despite her initial misgivings, she loved the small intimacy. "Your carriage is very comfortable. Although I'm looking forward to a hot bath and a soft bed tonight."

Was it her imagination that his eyes darkened and his face took on a predatory look? It was probably just in response to her racy comment about baths and beds. That had been a tad inappropriate. She hadn't even meant it that way. At least not consciously. Her exhaustion had loosened her tongue. But she couldn't regret the reaction it had provoked in him.

Was he experiencing the same pull of attraction she was? It seemed impossible, and yet, the glint in his eyes as they roamed her face provided encouragement. It was not the first time she had caught him looking at her surreptitiously during the journey.

What would it be like to lie with him? He looked like he knew his way around a woman's body. An image of those skilled fingers working the clay had her blushing. Ridiculous, of course. He wouldn't be interested. But if he made an advance, what would she say?

Yes!

The answer formed, unbidden, in her mind. Did that make her a wanton? And why not? She was a widow. Nobody expected her to be untouched. As long as she was discreet, an affair wouldn't ruin her. This was probably her one and only chance to experience pleasure in a man's arms. To enjoy a night of unbridled passion without ties or consequences.

She had resigned herself to be unwanted, to never experience the heady elixir of feeling beautiful and desirable. However, this man's attentions made her want things.

But she was getting way ahead of herself. He had not indicated by deed or word that he was interested in pursuing a liaison with her. Like a pitiful, love-starved widow, she was probably reading too much into his glances. Better rein her low impulses before she made a fool of herself, as her stepmother liked to remind her.

The train decelerated as it approached the station, and she stood to get her gloves and hat. But just as she lifted her arms to affix her hat, the train screeched to a sudden halt. The floor slid from under her. With nothing to grab on to, she took several quick steps, trying to regain her balance, before she lost her footing. And then she was falling through the air, until powerful arms circled her, holding her secure.

She wasn't sure how it happened, but she ended up on the marquess's lap. Their eyes met, the shock of the moment quickly giving way to a simmering desire they had both been denying for hours.

"I'm sorry, my lord," she said, horrified, as she scrambled to get up.

Instead of letting go, his arms tightened around her, preventing her escape.

"Wait. Damn, this feels good." His voice came out as a strangled growl.

"Oh..." She didn't know what else to say while his unyielding body was under her, around her, surrounding her with his strength and warmth.

"I've been wanting to have you on my lap like this since the moment you barged into my house."

The confession sounded gruff, torn from his mouth against his will.

She wriggled, trying to get comfortable, and he grunted as if in pain. His hands descended on her hips to immobilize her.

"Don't. Move," he hissed.

"I-I apologize. My weight is probably hurting you—"

Without a word, he pulled her closer, his lips crashing onto hers with ravening hunger. He didn't ask permission; he didn't cajole or seduce. He simply possessed, sure of his victory.

Thalia didn't have time to think, as his kiss robbed her of her sanity. Her hands found their way to his broad shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt as if to anchor herself amid the storm created by their shared passion. The kiss was desperate and wild, a raw expression of the longing they had both kept at bay.

The world outside the train ceased to exist; there was only the heat of their bodies, the mingling of their breaths, and the undeniable pull between them. Liam's kiss deepened, his tongue teasing her lips apart, exploring with a fervor that sent shivers down her spine.

Thalia melted against him, her own hunger matching his. Her fingers tangled in the long silvery locks of his hair, pulling him closer still. Even inexperienced as she was in the ways of passion, she understood the unspoken desires. The pull of a connection that defied reason and propriety.

As the train moved again, the spell broke, but only slightly. They pulled apart just enough to catch their breath, their foreheads resting against each other, hearts pounding in unison. The undeniable truth hung heavy between them: there was no going back from this moment, and neither of them wanted to.