My Fair Marchioness (Scandalous Affairs Book 3) by Christi Caldwell (best short books to read txt) 📗

Real struggles that were of both the emotional sort, as he’d known, but also a far greater strife that came in the uncertainty of the safety and security he had taken for granted.

Seated across the bench from Julia, he studied her.

She sat with her chin propped on her fist, staring out at the passing scenery.

And it occurred to him how little he knew her, about her life and how she’d lived, and scarily, he realized how very much he wished to. For what did it say about her and her existence that she sought to return to those streets she’d spoken so harshly of? That the moment she’d put that existence behind her, she hadn’t forgotten those who lived there who shared a like suffering. And it was nigh impossible to question the motives of one who asked for nothing more than bread to distribute. Just as it was hard to not look at oneself and one’s own narrow, self-absorbed focus before her arrival.

In the crystal windowpane, their gazes caught. Unlike the ladies he chose to keep company with who would have played coy, Julia immediately released the fabric of the curtain. As the gold velvet fluttered back into place, she faced him on the bench. “What is it?” she asked, and it was one of the first moments he’d ever detected a slightly rougher hint of East London on her speech, the sound of it so faint as to be borrowed from a long-ago dialect that had been more familiar to her.

“I don’t know what to make of you,” he murmured, speaking plainly and truthfully with her. Removing his gloves, he beat the articles together.

“I don’t…”

“You declined a modiste when almost anyone would relish having an entire new trousseau. You’d rather be handing food out to those in need than indulging in your own comforts.”

Her long auburn lashes swept low. “And you find me odd for that.”

“On the contrary, Julia.” He leaned forward. “I find you fascinating for it,” he said quietly, and there absolutely should be the usual, healthy dose of fear where that realization reared itself once more.

Her expression grew shuttered. “I’m hardly fascinating, Harris. I’ve lived the life of a commoner.”

From anyone else, those words would have been a flirty appeal for compliments. But not from this woman, who spoke to him, as she did to the duchess and the servants, with a staggering honesty that was so very refreshing. “On the contrary, Julia. There is everything intriguing about you.”

Her fingers trembled, and she immediately curled her hands into little fists upon her lap. Drawn, as he’d been from the first day, Harris lowered a hand atop one of hers and then collected those digits in his to steady their quake. Gently pulling free her gloves, one at a time, he freed them from the fabric and then folded his palm around hers.

Her breath caught.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar sound where he and women were concerned, but this little intake of air was different than those inhalations from the more experienced women he’d always preferred to keep company with. With Julia, that little gasp was a cross of soft pleasure and surprise, as though his was the first and only touch she’d ever known, and there was an intriguing appeal to that. One that recalled their embrace and also recalled all the things he’d dreamed of doing with her since then.

He lightly caressed the pad of his thumb along the inside of her wrist, and he felt the slight increase in her pulse. Her fingers went soft in his hand, unfurling as she opened herself to his touch.

The carriage rattled along at a slow clip, and as he stroked a finger along her palm, he was grateful for the clogged afternoon traffic that granted this moment and this exploration.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

“They’re callused and raw,” she said gruffly and made to pull away, but he tightened his hold.

“They’re real,” he said simply.

“That doesn’t make them beautiful, Harris,” she returned, her voice strained. “It makes them ugly and harsh.”

Like me.

The undertones of those unspoken words hovered in the carriage and ripped at his chest. That was truly how she saw herself? She didn’t see the generosity of her spirit, the courage she’d shown at every turn, refusing to be cowed by him from the start. Harris carefully considered his words. “Yes, they are imperfect hands, Julia,” he began, and her slender form tensed. He made himself continue. “They speak of hardship.” And the struggles she’d known. An image of her peddling flowers slipped in. Of Julia, reliant upon the generosity of self-indulgent lords and ladies, people like him, to stay alive. It sent a sharp stabbing pain through his chest. He stared at her profile. “But they also speak to your survival, Julia,” he murmured. A feat he, by the very nature of his birthright and comfortable upbringing, knew not a thing of. “And I can only admire you for that strength.”

“It wasn’t strength,” she said with a bitterness better suited to a woman many years her senior. “It was luck.”

“Perhaps both, but never just the latter,” he said. She really had no idea how strong she was. “There’s a beauty in these hands for what you’ve managed.”

“What I’ve managed,” she repeated to herself.

Harris trailed the half-moon curve at the top of her palm. Back and forth, he continued to caress her.

And then it was as though she released her guard. Another sigh slipped out, this one the sound of surrender as she relaxed her grip once more. Raising her palm to his lips, he placed a kiss upon the inseam where her hand met her arm, and then he proceeded to move a slow trail of kisses a touch higher. All the while, he studied her from under hooded lashes,