Heart of Iron by Bec McMaster

doubt why.
    “I used to prepare most of the meals after Father died and we first came to Whitechapel,” she replied, her lashes lowering again as she concentrated on the bowl. “Honoria was always home from work later than I.”
    “ You cooked?” He took the bowl from her and reached for the spoon. Her hand was tiny next to his, and very pale. Different worlds, the pair of them.
    “Badly.” She shot him a sudden smile that lit her whole face.
    Bloody hell. He stared at the soup. Six months since he’d seen her last—a deliberate act on his behalf—and he’d almost forgotten the way she could heat his blood with a smile, a look.
    A careless kiss.
    “And now you go to balls.” He put the sneer in his voice, but the effort felt hollow. Taking refuge in the soup, he almost burned the roof of his mouth.
    “I like dancing.” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “And balls. The men there behave like gentlemen. It’s a pleasant surprise.”
    “You ain’t got a thrall contract yet.” He’d been waiting to hear word of it. Imagining one of those blue blood bastards with his mouth and hands all over her as he drank her sweet blood.
    Color flooded her cheeks. “No. I haven’t made my mind up. And there’s no rush.”
    “No rush? Ain’t you gettin’ perilously close to bein’ on the shelf?”
    “I’m barely twenty,” she snapped.
    “I see. You’d prefer to keep ’em danglin’?”
    “That’s not what I meant.”
    “Seems like the sort of games you’d play.”
    A dangerous look in those eyes. Lena swished on her heel, snatching at her gloves. “I hope you choke on your soup, you big, hairy lummox. You don’t know anything about me. Anything!”
    A piece of paper tumbled from her sleeve as she turned, fluttering to the floor like a dying moth.
    “Ah, we’re back to that, are we?” he asked, putting the soup aside to cool. Stooping, he plucked up the piece of paper. “You dropped something.”
    Lena froze in the doorway. Her hand went immediately to her sleeve, and then she spun around, her eyes widening. “Give it to me!”
    Will stood, breaking the seal and unrolling the small furl of paper. He caught just a glimpse of thick black letters before Lena tried to tug it out of his grip.
    “A love letter, I’ll bet.” He turned around and pretended to read it.
    A whoosh of scent enveloped him, her skirts swishing against his legs. She clutched at his shoulder, trying to drag his arm lower, her breasts crushed against the broad expanse of his back. Any attempt at reading went straight out of his head.
    “What would you know of love letters?” She climbed on the stool and reached for the piece of paper. The step put her on eye level with him. Dangerously intimate. “The type of woman as would have you isn’t the type to be writing poems.”
    “Don’t be so sure,” he shot back. “You’d be surprised at the type of poems they whisper in me ear.”
    “Urgh. You’re despicable.”
    The stool teetered and their gazes clashed. Lena shrieked and clutched at him as she fell. Will found himself with an armful of soft velvet and warm flesh, and the sound of two racing hearts.
    The world slowed down. Became nothing more than the feel of her in his arms. Will stared into her eyes, then his gaze dropped, unbidden, to her lips.
    Lena’s eyes widened and she made a choking noise. “Put me down.”
    He could barely breathe. The hunger inside him was suddenly choking him, desperate to get out and rule his body. He knew the burning amber of his gaze was intensifying; he could almost feel the molten heat of it run through his irises as the color changed.
    “Will,” she whispered. “Your eyes.”
    Her breath was warm on his lips. She’d been chewing something with apple and cinnamon in it. He could scent it on her breath and suddenly he wanted to taste it.
    Don’t.
    Shoving her away, he turned, the paper crumpling in his fist. He had to get out of here. Away from the scent of her. Away from the temptation