Lord of Regrets by Sabrina Darby

thoughts behind the expression on her face.
    Finally, she picked her way across the room and, using her hands and knees, climbed onto the wide armchair opposite his.
    “Mama said you would come.”
    Her feet in their little slippers made circles in the air, and she played with the folds of her dress while looking at him under long lashes. Wondrous to think that he had had a part of creating this curious little being.
    “And so I did. Your mother was correct.”
    “She said we aren’t going to leave. Are you going to live with us?”
    Marcus laughed, despite himself. The idea was so preposterous.
    Leona wiped at her forehead with her palm, as if she were confused by his laughter or made self-conscious. Her movement had the awkward grace of a body not yet sure of itself.
    “My mama doesn’t like you, so she probably won’t let you,” she continued, her arms folding over her chest and her face settling into a mulish expression, clearly not happy with his laughter.
    But he was amused by this little human who still boggled his mind.
    “Why do you think she doesn’t like me?”
    “Because you are stupid.”
    He laughed again. Perhaps he was stupid, but surely not for any reasons this child could imagine. In any event, his stupidity was monumental.
    She lifted her hand to her forehead again, pushing back a loose strand of hair with the flat of her palm. A childish gesture with no precision, and the charm of it momentarily humbled him, made his laughter catch in his throat.
    The house shifted and creaked with the opening of the front door. Marcus straightened in his seat, a flush of anticipation heating his body as he waited for Natasha to enter the room.
    Leona sat up, too, pushed herself to the edge of the chair as if she intended to jump down and run to her mother. But she stopped herself and looked down at her shoes, her legs swinging.
    Then, framed in the open doorway, caught between the illumination of the fire and the cool gray afternoon light, was Natasha. Even in the plainest clothes she looked beautiful. Her eyes wide and large, her features heavier than most English women, but all of it so perfectly balanced that she appeared at once delicate and strong.
    Marcus stood immediately. In five strides, he closed the distance between them and took Natasha’s hands in his own. Her bare fingers were cold and he pressed them to his lips fervently, meeting her stunned gaze.
    Her cheeks were pink from being outside and her lips were parted ever so slightly. He lowered her hands, letting the back of his brush against her skirts, pressing so that he could feel, through the layers of cloth, the resistance of her thigh. He wanted to lean forward and kiss her, to capture the fullness of that soft, rosy lower lip between his.
    He wanted her . The memory of the night before boiled through his veins, heated his nerves.
    “Please release me,” she said softly, so softly her words did not at first register.
    He was tempted to ignore her. Tempted to place his hands against the wall on either side of her and lean in close. To kiss her, to take her there, to remind her of how they fit together.
    He heard a noise from behind him—Leona, who was likely watching their interaction avidly.
    So instead, tightening his grip on Natasha’s hands, he pulled her against him ever so slightly and whispered, “For now.”
    …
    Natasha’s breath caught in her chest. When he finally dropped her hands, she began to shiver. She rubbed her palms together and swept past him into the room, toward the fire, toward Leona.
    Who looked away from her as she came closer. The rejection stung, and Natasha had to stop herself from gathering her daughter into her arms and forcing a hug. She had tried that earlier in the day, and Leona had squirmed in her arms, pushing at her. It would pass. Leona would forget…or at least forgive. It would pass.
    Natasha stood by the fire and put her hands out, trying to warm herself. In the wake of Marcus’s burning hands