You Were Made to Be Mine by Julie Anne Long

Author:Julie Anne Long
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2022-06-28T00:00:00+00:00

Back in his room, Hawkes lit the lamp and kept it low, then moved to the window to inspect the view, beyond which thin black spires of ships pierced a pewter sky layered in mist.

He slid open the window briefly and hung out his head so the wind could give him a good bracing slap.

Tomorrow morning, he intended to pay a visit to a certain antiquities dealer by the name of Guthrie. Unless he discovered Mrs. Gallagher had simultaneous other plans, in which case, wherever she went, he would follow.

Pain and weariness were beginning to assert themselves through the pleasant haze of brandy and the evening’s bonhomie. He ought to lay his wounded self back on the bed and rest, decide upon a course of action. Have a proper night’s sleep, if he could.

But the thought of Mrs. Gallagher sent restlessness rippling across his nerves.

And as though it was a pleasant drug of the sort Mr. Delacorte might carry about in his case, his thoughts returned to the moment earlier in the evening when Mrs. Hardy was playing pianoforte and everyone had gathered around her to sing, and he’d found himself standing and signing alongside Mrs. Gallagher. Somewhere mid-song their eyes met, then held perhaps longer than was proper. Her singing faltered, and a flush spilled into her cheeks. But before she dropped her eyes, her lips had curved in a little smile that was as sensual as a hand brushed across his cock.

He relived that moment second by second now for the fresh surge of pure, primal masculine satisfaction.

Because he’d done that to her—caused that flush, that smile, that head-duck. As if his presence was simply too potent to bear.

But the truth was more humbling: in the moment, her smile had all but clubbed him senseless for a beat or two. Rendered incapable of speech or thought, never mind singing. He’d watched, mesmerized, balanced on the razor-fine line between fascination and something almost like anger, the quickening rise and fall of her bodice. Because in that moment it had irrationally seemed a crime against nature, worse than treason, not to touch her when mere inches separated them.

He imagined how her expression would change if she knew why he was really here.

And he closed his eyes and swore softly aloud.

He understood the dance and delicacies of diplomacy, but he’d never been able to indulge in the luxury of a formal courtship. Its intricacies and graces, its etiquette and implications. Its vulnerabilities and uncertainties. He wasn’t even certain he knew how to do it.

From the time he’d bought his first commission he’d been caught up in a spiral of ambition and reward. Fueled by success and admiration. Exhilarated, intoxicated, by danger and challenge. Until his work comprised a sort of whirlpool from which he couldn’t escape. It had only stopped when he’d been imprisoned.

In prison, remaining present had been a form of survival, and longing to be elsewhere was a form of torture. He’d been unable to imagine what might be next for him; moreover, he’d refused to do it.

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