Page 167 of Pride: The Rogue
Funny, he’d spent dozens of hours searching for this woman, rushing for her, and found himself without a single, goddamned word, except for one.
“Livian,” he said hoarsely.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
Fighting for you.
“He’s leaving, Livvie,” Maxwell spoke with a quiet and calm that defied his earlier lack of restraint.
Livvie.That moniker hardly suited the fierce, proud, strong woman who’d stolen Latimer’s heart.
“Isn’t that right, Latimer?” the earl prodded, jabbing his elbow hard against Latimer’s side.
“I am,” Latimer promised. “That is, I will…if that is what you want.”
“It’s very much what I want,” the earl snapped.
“It should be obvious, I’m not talking to you,” Latimer said without taking his gaze from hers. “I’m talking to Livian.”
Say something. Say anything. Give some indication you are happy to see me; that you want me here. Tell me you love me even a smidge of how deeply, madly, and wholly, I love you.
The confusion in her expressive eyes deepened revealing nothing more.
His panic spiraled.
“Livian,” he stretched an imploring hand up toward her. “Please, I’d ask you to hear me out.”
“You don’t have to.” Maxwell made that vow to his sister-in-law before Latimer’s plea fully left his mouth.
“No,” Latimer said not taking his gaze from Livian’s. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to; not because Maxwell here or I ask it of you. I can only beg you to hear me out.”
Livian and the young woman beside her exchanged glances.
She’s going to send me away.
But then, why wouldn’t she?
Latimer’s muscles convulsed.
Livian said something.
The countess nodded.
A moment later, she held a hand out to the Earl of Maxwell. “Livvie would like a moment alone in the foyer with Mr. Latimer.”
A moment alone.
In the foyer.
He dragged an uneven hand through his hair. Neither of those portended the eager welcome and joy of a woman who wished to see him.
The earl and his two men gave Latimer a warning look before joining the countess abovestairs, and then slipping down the hall until Latimer and Livian were…alone.
Alone, with three dozen steps between them.
Livian stood there, uncertain as he’d never seen her—not even that first night he’d stormed her rooms and roused her from bed—and then gripping the gold railing, she ventured downstairs with equally hesitant strides.
He drank in the sight of her—all regal beauty and grace, even with a dusting of charcoal pencil on each of her high, proud cheeks.
