Page 8 of Her Sort of Scoundrel
He merely offered each a nod. This wasn’t the time for formal introductions, and he didn’t appear to be in the mood for polite conversation.
Fiona found herself uncertain what to say to him once they were alone.
Goodness, the first words they’d spoken in nearly two years.
No. Shouldn’t he do the talking? He’d been the one to unceremoniously burst into her conservatory.
He took a step forward, and she found herself breathless, eager for whatever explanation he might offer. Eager, she realized with a bit of mortification, to hear him say her name.
In the past, they’d spoken for hours at a time, never running out of things to say.
When he remained mute, frustration took hold.
“What do you want, Granford?” Fiona lifted her arms and then planted them on her hips. “Why have you come?”
CHAPTER3
He wanted her.
The power of his desire struck him like a blow, sucking the air from the room and all good sense from his head.
He’d cherished memories of their friendship over the past two years, but remembrances paled in comparison to the sight of her just a few steps out of his reach.
That honey-spun hair he’d sometimes imagined wrapped around his fingers, those eyes that took in so much so quickly, and a face he’d seen in his dreams far more than he’d admit to anyone.
Silence loomed between them so long that she took a step toward him.
“What do you want?” she asked again, but this time more quietly, her voice rasping low with emotion.
“To speak to you.” It was the barest, truest confession of what had propelled him out of his conservatory into hers, but it conveyed none of what he was feeling now.
Finally, she seemed to lower her defenses a bit. Something in her expression softened, and she gestured toward the circle of upholstered chairs that had been arranged for her ladies’ meeting.
“Then shall we sit?”
She was going to allow it. He realized his muscles were tensed. If she’d thrown him out, he wouldn’t have blamed her.
He drew in a deep breath, willing his muscles to unfurl. Only a fool would refuse the gift she was offering—a chance to finally clear the air between them.
Dash waited until she’d chosen a chair and then sat in the one across from her, lowering himself gingerly and immediately feeling ill at ease. How could something they’d done a hundred times together feel so suddenly awkward?
“Forgive me for bursting in on your gathering.” Lord, he’d been an impulsive fool.
“You did make quite an entrance.” She pursed her lips.
Dash wondered if she was repressing a smile or biting her tongue to keep from lashing out at him. He’d rarely seen her truly angry. Only that once. That awful day that he’d take back every moment of if he could.
“I don’t know what came over me. I heard my name—”
“And didn’t like what you heard?”
“Not particularly, though I suppose it’s well deserved.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” There was an arch tone in Fiona’s reply, and he wondered precisely how much she knew of his foolish exploits.
Good grief, he hadn’t truly taken notice of the various ladies who’d been assembled in her conservatory when he’d barreled in. Had he known any of them intimately? Is that why she watched him now so warily?
“I’ve heard you have a ward.”
