Isabel took a deep breath at the sound of the soft knock, and then called out permission to enter. Gray came in, pausing on the threshold, a telling moment of hesitation she’d not seen from him before. Lord Grayson never waited. He leaped into action the moment he thought of something, which is how he often landed into mischief.

He stared at her, long and hard. Enough to where she regretted her decision to receive him in her dressing gown. She had debated internally for almost half an hour, and in the end had decided to act as much as possible like she had before. Surely, the sooner they settled into their usual routine, the more comfortable they both would be.

“I believe the water is most likely cold by now,” she murmured, turning away from the gilded vanity to sit on the nearby chaise. “But then I was always the one who drank tea.”

“I preferred brandy.”

He closed the door, giving her a brief moment to savor the sound of his voice. Why she should notice its slight rasp now, when she hadn’t before, puzzled her.

“I have it here.” She gestured toward the low table where a china tea set, brandy decanter, and goblet waited.

Gray’s mouth widened in a slow smile. “You are always thinking of me. Thank you.” He looked around. “I am pleased to find the space exactly as I remember it. With the walls and ceiling draped with white satin, I have always felt like I am standing in a tent when I am in here.”

“That was the effect I wanted,” she said, relaxing into the low back and curling her legs next to her.

“Is that so?”

He sat across from her, tossing his arm across the back of the settee. Isabel couldn’t help but remember how he used to do the same to her shoulders. At that time, she had thought nothing of it. That version of Grayson had merely been exuberant.

He also hadn’t been quite so large.

“Why a tent, Pel?”

“You have no notion of how long I’ve waited for you to ask that,” she admitted with a soft chuckle.

“Why didn’t I ask before?”

“We did not talk about such things.”

“No?” His eyes laughed at her. “What did we talk about then?”

She moved to pour him a brandy, but he shook his head.

“Why, we talked about you, Gray.”

“Me?” he asked with raised brows. “Surely, not all the time.”

“Nearly all the time.”

“And when we weren’t talking about me?”

“Well, then we were talking about your inamoratas.”

Gray grimaced, and she laughed, remembering how much fun she used to have in simple discourse with him. Then she noted how he looked at her, as if he could not quite put his finger on something about her. Her laughter faded away.

“How insufferable I was, Isabel. How did you ever tolerate me?”

“I quite liked you,” she said honestly. “There never was any guessing with you. You always said exactly what you meant.”

He looked past her shoulder. “You still hang Pelham’s portrait,” he mused. Gray returned his gaze to hers. “Did you love him so very much?”

Isabel turned, and looked at the painting behind her. She tried, truly tried to dredge up some remnant of the love she’d once had for him, but her bitter resentment was too deep. She couldn’t reach below it. “I did. I cannot remember the feeling now, but once I loved him desperately.”

“Is that why you avoid commitment, Pel?”

She turned back to face him with her lips pursed. “You and I did not discuss personal things either.”

Gray’s arm left the back of the chair and he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Could we not be better friends now, than we were then?”

“I am not sure that would be wise,” she murmured, once again glancing at her wedding band.

“Why not?”

Isabel rose and stood at the window, needing to put distance between herself and his new intensity.

“Why not?” he asked again, following her. “Do you have other, closer friends that you share things with?”

He set his hands atop her shoulders, and it took only a moment for his touch to heat her skin, and his scent to reach her nostrils. When next he spoke, his voice came close to her ear. “Is it too much to ask that you add your husband to your list of trusted friends?”

“Gray,” she breathed, her heart racing with her distress. Her restless fingers brushed the satin billowing beside the window frame. “I do not have friends like you describe. And you say the word ‘husband’ with an import we never gave to it.”

“How about your lover, then?” he pressed. “Does he hear your thoughts?”

Isabel attempted to pull away, but he held her fast.

“Why a tent, Pel? Can you tell me that, at least?”

She shivered at the feel of his exhale against her nape.

“I like to imagine it is a part of a caravan.”

“A fantasy?” Gray’s large hands slid down her arms. “Is there a sheik who goes with this fantasy? Does he ravish you?”

“My lord!” she protested, thoroughly alarmed by the way her skin was prickling with sensual awareness. There was no way to ignore the hard male body that bracketed hers.

“What do you want, Gray?” she asked, her mouth dry.

“Have you suddenly decided to change the rules?”

“And if I have?”
“We would end up apart, our friendship ruined. You and I are not the type of people who find love ever after.”

“How would you know what type of man I am?”

“I know you kept a mistress while professing to love another.”

His hot, open mouth pressed against the side of her throat, and her eyes slid closed at the seductive touch.

“You said I’ve changed, Isabel.”

“No man changes that much. Regardless, I…I have someone.”

Gray turned her to face him. His hands around her wrists were hot, his gaze hotter. Lord, she knew that look. It was the look Pelham had brought her to heel with, the look she made certain none of her lovers gave to her. Passion, desire—she welcomed those. But carnal hunger was something to be avoided at all costs.

That famished gaze swept over her body from head to toe and back again. Her nipples ached and tightened as his heated examination passed them, until she knew they must be visible even through her gown. His perusal paused there on the upward journey, and a low growl rumbled in his throat. Her lips parted on a panting breath.

“Isabel,” he rasped, his hand lifting to cup her breast, his thumb brushing across the tight peak. “Could you not give me a chance to prove my worth?”

She heard her own needy moan, felt her blood heat and grow sluggish. His mouth lowered to hers, and she titled her head back, waiting.

And wanting.

A soft scratching at the door broke the moment. She stumbled backward, breaking free of his slackened hold. Her fingers covered her lips, pressing hard to hide their quivering.

“My lady?” came the soft query of her abigail from the hallway. “Should I return later?”

Gray waited, his breathing harsh, the crests of cheekbones flushed. There was no doubt in Isabel’s mind that if she sent her maid away, she’d be flat on her back and
mounted within moments.

“Come in,” she called, wincing at the note of panic thatshe could not hide.

Damn him. He’d made her want him, this new spouse of hers. Want him with the type of need that made her ache, a need she had thought herself too old and too wise to ever feel again.
It was her worst nightmare come to life.

Her husband closed his eyes a moment, collecting himself, as the abigail swept in and went straight to the armoire.

“Shopping tomorrow, Pel?” he asked, his voice maddeningly calm. “I do need new garments.”

The most she could manage was a jerky nod.

Grayson sketched an elegant bow and retreated, but his presence lingered in her mind long after he had gone.