For the first time since she had known him, Lord Carlisle was not behind his desk. Instead, he was seated away, lounged on the settee by the wall, clad in a fine cotton shirt to keep the cold away, and a pair of dark grey trousers. His waistcoat lay discarded at the far end of the settee; he had cast it off, a rare departure from his usual formal attire. The informality of his dress hinted at a rare moment of relaxation, a departure from the stern, composed figure she was used to.
He was comfortably sprawled on the settee, his legs crossed at the ankle as he read through a parchment, rhythmically tapping the top of the settee in thought. Beth had never seen him so relaxed and carefree, and it was a beautiful sight to behold. His usually impeccable hair was dishevelled as if he had run his hand through it, and Beth was momentarily reminded of the feel of his dark locks. Her fingers twitched involuntarily, longing to touch them again.
