Jacquie D'Alessandro (16 page)

“I see,” she murmured, even though she didn’t. “I’m sorry.”

“As am I.”

“I hope you are able to set aside your differences before it’s…too late.”

“That is my hope as well. However, I’m not certain it’s possible. Some wounds never heal.”

“Yes, I know. But I would urge you to do whatever necessary to mend your relationship with your father. You don’t realize how fortunate you are to
have
a father.”

“Your father is dead?”

The question hit Meredith like a backhanded slap, making her realize that she’d allowed this conversation to veer down a road she did not wish to tread upon. “Yes, he’s dead.” At least she supposed he was. It was what she told herself. Determined to change the subject, she asked, “Whatever happened to the coins you found in the well?”

“We donated three of them to the museum. I kept one for myself.”

“Do you still have it?”

“I do. Would you like to see it?”

“Very much.”

He paused, lightly grasping her arm to turn her to face him. To her surprise he proceeded to loosen his cravat. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Showing you the coin.” With his cravat unknotted, he parted the edges of his snowy shirt, exposing the column
of his throat. Reaching inside the V, he withdrew a chain hanging around his neck from which dangled a small circular object. However, he didn’t pull the chain over his head. Instead he stepped closer, then held out the disk.

She went perfectly still. They stood in a deeply shadowed curve of the narrow pathway, lit only by the faint glow of moonlight sifting through the trees. The noise, music, crowds, and illuminated lamps of the grove were far in the distance, cloaking them in intimacy. A fragrant breeze brushed her gown against his boots. No more than two feet separated them. Two feet that could be erased in one step. One step that would bring her flush against him. She heard him breathing. Could he hear her heart pounding?

Her gaze riveted on the coin he held out to her. Unable to stop herself, she raised her hand, noting that it shook slightly. He settled the coin against her palm. His fingers brushed hers as he did so, sizzling heat up her arm.

Warm. The gold was warm from where it had rested against his skin only seconds before. Her fingers involuntarily closed over the coin, absorbing the heat, pressing it into her palm. Slowly opening her fingers, she stared at the round disk. “I cannot see it very well, I’m afraid.”

He stepped closer. Now only inches separated them. “Is that better?”

“Er, yes.” But she lied. It was so much worse. Now she could clearly distinguish his scent. Feel the warmth emanating from his body. See his bare throat work as he swallowed. Her mind screamed at her to back away, but her feet refused to move. Still holding the coin, she looked up at him. The dim light did not prevent her from noting his serious, intent expression as he stared. At her lips.

He cupped her face between his broad palms and gently feathered his thumbs across her cheeks. “So soft,” he whispered. “So incredibly soft.” He lowered his head, slowly, as if to give her the opportunity to pull away, to
end this madness. Instead, she closed her eyes and waited…

Philip brushed his mouth lightly over hers, fighting against the rising urge to simply yank her into his arms and devour her. Instead he gently drew her closer, until her body was flush against his, trapping her hand, which still held the coin, against his chest. He ran the tip of his tongue along her plump bottom lip, and her lips parted, inviting him into the warm heaven of her mouth.

Delicious. She tasted exactly as she smelled—sweet, seductive, and delicious. Like something from the confectioner’s shop. Desire pumped through his veins like a drug, ensnaring his senses. A long, feminine moan sounded from her, and he touched his fingers to her throat to absorb the vibration, while his other hand skimmed down to the small of her back, urging her closer, tighter against him.

She released the coin, splaying her fingers against his chest. She had to feel his heart slapping against his ribs. Had to feel his arousal pressing against her. His tongue explored the silky secrets of her lovely mouth, and the exquisite friction of her tongue rubbing against his nearly brought him to his knees.

More. Had to touch more of her. Without breaking their kiss, he pulled on the satin ribbons securing her bonnet beneath her chin, then pushed the bonnet back, exposing her hair. He sifted his fingers through the thick, silky strands, scattering pins that pinged gently as they hit the graveled ground. Soft. Fragrant. More.

Gently fisting his hands in her hair, he tilted her head back, giving him access to her jaw and the vulnerable curve of her neck. He noted with satisfaction that her pulse jumped wildly against his lips, and he touched his tongue to the frantic beat. With a sigh, she rose up on her toes, sifting the fingers of one hand through the hair at his nape, while the hand that pressed his chest moved upward
until the tips of her fingers touched the exposed skin at the base of his throat where he’d parted his shirt.

The feel of her fingers on his skin, touching his hair, undid him. He reclaimed her lips with a need he could not stem, which was fired further by her heated response. The feel of her pressed against him, the taste of her in his mouth pummeled him with fists of hot want and need, stealing his subtlety, vanquishing his finesse. His hands, normally so steady, patient, and calm that they could spend hours piecing together minute fragments of broken pottery, roamed unsteady, impatient, and restless up and down her back.

She shifted against him, her softness rubbing against his erection, and a shudder racked him. He had to stop. Now. While there still remained a remote chance that he could. With an effort that cost him, he raised his head and looked down at her.

Her eyes were closed, and rapid, shallow breaths puffed from between her parted lips. Her dark hair lay in tangled disarray about her shoulders. Longing battered him, but he clenched his jaw and forced himself not to give in to the overwhelming need to kiss her again. Her eyelids fluttered open, and their gazes locked.

Damn. While he welcomed the intimacy and privacy afforded by the darkness, he also cursed it, as it hid the nuances of her expression from him. He wanted to see her eyes. Her skin. Were her pupils dilated? Did a flush of arousal stain her cheeks?

She remained pressed against him, forcibly reminding him of his aching erection. God knows he wanted her—with a ferocity completely unfamiliar to him. Was it simply the fact that it had been so long since he’d had a woman? Or was it this particular woman that had him so painfully aroused?

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to imagine someone else wrapped in his arms, his fingers tangled in her
hair, and failed. Utterly. He saw only her. This was not a case of any-woman-would-satisfy-him. Only this particular woman would do.

The silence grew heavy with the need to say something, but what? No doubt a true gentleman would apologize and heartily beg her pardon, but the fact that he’d deliberately lured her into the dark recesses of Vauxhall with the express intention of kissing her proved his gentlemanly tendencies were tarnished.
Tarnished?
His inner voice scoffed.
More like rusted beyond repair.
And how could he apologize for something he was not sorry for?

Still, the words echoing through his brain,
I want you, I want you,
were probably best left unsaid. So he brushed back a tangled curl from her forehead and whispered the one word that hovered on the tip of his tongue.

“Meredith.”

The sound of her name, whispered in that aroused-rough voice, yanked Meredith from the sensual fog surrounding her. She blinked rapidly as reality returned with a thump. Every nerve tingled with awareness, hummed with pleasure. The feminine flesh between her legs felt heavy and moist, and ached with a low throb, made all the more acute by the hardness pressing against her belly. His obvious arousal quashed those rumors that he could not…perform—not that she’d believed them for an instant anyway. And the way he kissed…

God help her, he’d kissed her senseless. How many hours had she lain awake, wondering what it would feel like to be kissed in such a way, trying to bludgeon back her curiosity and desires? She knew all too well where such thoughts led, and it was a path she’d vowed never to follow. Yet she’d allowed Lord Greybourne to lead her into the intimate and private darkness, knowing in her heart that he would kiss her. And desperately wanting him to.

But she had not counted on him making her feel like…this. So alive. So aching. So wanting. And so bereft when he stopped. She’d wanted to know the feel and taste of his kiss. And now she knew. And she wanted more. And that was utterly impossible.

She wished she could claim outrage, brand him a cad, but her honor wouldn’t permit such a patent falsehood, nor allow her to place any blame for what had happened between them on his shoulders. She could have stopped him. Should have stopped him. But she’d chosen not to. And now, as she always had, she would simply have to live with the consequences of her actions. But in this case her actions could well threaten the respectability for which she’d fought so long and hard. What on earth was she thinking to risk it all for a clandestine kiss?

With as much dignity as she could muster, she disentangled her fingers from his thick, silky hair, pulled her other hand away from the warmth of his chest, then stepped back, out of the circle of his arms.

Deftly twisting her disarrayed hair into a passable chignon, she pulled her bonnet back into place, securely tying the bow beneath her chin. “We must go back,” she said, feeling much more in control now that her hair was tidy. Now that he was no longer touching her.

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Lady Bickley and Mr. Stanton must be concerned by our prolonged absence.”

“That is not what I meant.” Reaching out, he ran a single fingertip over her cheek, stilling her with a whisper of a touch. “But I think you knew that. I think you know, as I do, that we cannot erase what just happened between us. That from now on, everything will fall into one of two categories—before we kissed, and after we kissed.”

Those words, spoken in that low, fervent voice, threatened to weaken her still-wobbly knees. Stepping back,
out of his reach, she raised her chin and adopted her most brisk tone. “Nonsense. We can and will forget it.”

“I will not forget it, Meredith. Not if I live to be one hundred.”

Dear God, neither would she. But one of them had to be sensible. “Please understand that I accept my share of the blame for this.” She attempted a lighthearted laugh, and was quite impressed with the results. “Clearly the romantic atmosphere adversely affected both our judgments. We must not make such a to-do over a meaningless kiss.”

“You truly believe that? That it was nothing more than the atmosphere? That nothing significant passed between us?” He stepped closer to her, and although he did not touch her, his nearness made her heart skip several beats. “You honestly believe it will not happen again?”

“Yes.” The word sounded forced even to her own ears. “Once can be discounted as simply poor judgment. Twice would—”

“Place it in a different category altogether.”

“Yes.”

“A category labeled ‘a mistake of gargantuan proportions.’”

“I’m glad you agree.” Relieved that they’d reached an understanding, she plunged on before he could change his mind or further discuss their kiss—a topic she longed to forget. “We really must rejoin the others.”

He inclined his head, and they proceeded back toward the supper boxes in silence. Meredith kept her distance from him, careful not to brush her arm against his. No good could come of this impossible attraction to him. They belonged in different worlds. He was destined to marry a woman of his own class—once he broke the curse. And if he failed to break the curse, he couldn’t marry. Either way, she could only ever be a temporary diversion for him, a plaything to be tossed aside when the games were finished, and she would never allow herself to
be that to any man. An image of her mother’s face rose in her mind, and she squeezed her eyes shut. No. She would never make the same mistakes Mama had made. Never do what Mama had done.

Charlotte cracked opened her bedchamber door and peeked into the corridor. The light flickering beneath Albert’s door indicated he’d finally lit his candles and retired for the evening. Assured that she would be alone, she hurried to the kitchen to make herself a much-needed pot of hot, soothing tea. She pushed open the kitchen door and halted as if she’d walked into a brick wall. Albert leaned against the wooden work counter, a biscuit in one hand, a steaming cup in the other hand. Her appearance in the doorway froze his hand halfway to his lips. He appeared as startled and disconcerted as she.

Charlotte’s heart slapped against her ribs as she took in his appearance. His light brown hair was badly disheveled, as if he’d overindulged in his habit of raking his long fingers through the thick strands. The glow from the low burning flame in the grate cast his lean features into stark shadows, accentuating the shading along his jawline from the nighttime stubble of his beard. Her gaze traveled downward, and her heart threatened to cease slapping altogether.

He wore the dark blue flannel robe she’d given him for his last birthday, almost a year ago. At the time, she hadn’t thought twice about purchasing such a personal item for him—he was Albert, after all. Part of her family. But after he’d opened her gift, he’d hugged her, pressing a warm kiss to her forehead. Simple gestures of gratitude, nothing more. Yet it was as if she’d taken a blow to the head. He’d never done such a thing before. Indeed, it sometimes seemed that Albert went out of his way
not
to touch her—as if he sensed her aversion to a man’s hands on her—and she’d appreciated his sensitivity.

That hug and tender kiss to her forehead were the first time in her life a man had ever touched her with kindness and gentle care. With friendship. Without expecting or wanting more from her. It was a revelation, and one that had set her on this destructive course of impossible, unacceptable feelings for Albert.