Lord Hawkridge lifted his hand and reached toward her so slowly, so tenderly, so hesitantly, that Faith had plenty of time to stop him long before his warm familiar fingers curved against the side of her face.
Yet she did not.
“I missed you.” Hawk’s voice was gravelly, his gaze anguished. “I still miss you.”
Faith did not trust herself to respond. She doubted she needed to. Allowing him to cradle her face in the palm of his hand was as much a confession as torture.
Now he would know the truth.
She yearned for him. Had never stopped yearning. Her body could not be trusted to accomplish self-preservation. Nor could her heart. It was cracking open even as she gazed up at him in wordless need.
He might’ve kissed her then, had the driver not abruptly reached their destination.
She might even have let him.