In Your Arms Again by Kathryn Smith

ability to think of a suitable reply.
    “You are not wearing gloves.” Good Lord, now she was going to think he had become simple over the years as well.
    Her lips curved in that mischievous smile he remembered from his dreams. “Neither are you, Mr. Sheffield. Mine are in my reticule. Where are yours?”
    It didn’t occur to him to lie. “Home.”
    Her laughter broke through the din around them, lighting her face with a glow that pinched at North’s chest. “Of course they are!”
    Seconds passed, years perhaps, as they stared into each other’s eyes. Reaching down, he caught the hand that had touched his face just moments before, and held it tight in his own. The only parts of their bodies touching were their hands, and yet he felt her as surely as if he held her flush against him. Every fiber of his being was that aware of her presence.
    “I’ve missed you,” he confided in a low voice.
    He watched her swallow, the delicate column of her throat constricting as though the action took great effort. “I know,” she whispered. “I wish things could have been different.”
    His smile was kind, despite the hollowness in his chest. “But they are not, and now you must go before your fiancé starts to worry.”
    Was it his imagination, or did her fingers tighten around his? “You are right.” Slowly, she stepped back, easing out of his grip as reluctantly as he let her go. “It was lovely seeing you again, Norrie.”
    Every time she called him by that nickname, the one that had driven him mad as a youngster, his heart squeezed painfully. She was breaking it, breaking it with nothing more than a reminder of what they once were to each other—and the regret that those days were so far behind them now.
    “It was lovely seeing you as well.” His voice was undeniably hoarse, betraying his regret.
    Opening her reticule—the same deep burgundy as her dress—she withdrew long, ivory satin gloves. She drew them on slowly, silently, unknowingly giving North ample time to commit the graceful lines of her hands and arms to memory once more. He burned as much of her as he could into his mind’s eye—the soft hollows of her neck, the gentle line of her collarbones, the smooth, unblemished flesh of her upper chest that gave way to the swell of a bosom more impressive than it had been when he last touched it. As a girl she had been sharp, lanky even, but now she was as elegant as a gazelle, as softly supple as a willow.
    Her gloves on, she raised her gaze to his with a resolution that startled him. He couldn’t help but assume she had decided to never see him again—or worse yet, that she would see him again.
    “Good night, Norrie.” Not the “good-bye” she owed him, not “farewell,” but “good night,” as though day might bring another meeting.
    “Flights of angels, Vie.”
    She smiled. Had she realized that he hadn’t said good-bye either?
    She had taken but a few steps—almost to the door—when she turned as though a sudden thought struck her. Of course he was watching her, and their gazes locked once more.
    “Spinton is not my fiancé,” she informed him. “Not yet.”
    With that, she turned her back to him and left the room, her spine as straight and regal as a fine lady’s should be. She was a lady now.
    But underneath all that finery, she was still his Vie.
    His Vie.
    After congratulating young Madeline once more, North left the soirée himself. He needed to be alone—needed to play over his meeting with Octavia until it made sense. Twelve years since they’d last spoken and what had they discussed? How much they’d missed each other. It didn’t seem possible. Didn’t seem real. How could they still mean that much to each other after so much time? But it wasn’t a lie. He had meant every word he said—and many that he hadn’t. And he knew that Octavia had been honest when she told him how much she missed him, and that Spinton wasn’t her fiancé.
    Hadn’t Spinton told him the same