“I didn’t want—”
“You don’t know what you want,” he cut in. It was a cruel statement, condescending in the extreme, but he was beyond caring. She’d wounded him in a way he hadn’t even known was possible, with a power he’d never dreamed she possessed. She’d chosen a life of drudgery over a life with him, and now he was doomed to see her almost every day, to see her and taste her and smell her just enough to keep his desire sharp and strong.
It was his own fault, of course. He could have let her stay in the country, could have saved himself this wrenching torture. But he’d surprised even himself by insisting that she come to London. It was odd, and he was almost afraid to analyze what it meant, but he needed to know that she was safe and protected more than he needed her for himself.
She said his name, but her voice was laced with longing, and he knew that she was not indifferent to him. She might not fully understand what it meant to want a man, but she wanted him all the same.
He captured her mouth with his, swearing to himself as he did so that if she said no, if she made any sort of indication that she didn’t want this, he’d stop. It’d be the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he would do it.
But she didn’t say no, and she didn’t push against him or struggle or squirm. Instead, she positively melted into him, her hands twining in his hair as her lips parted beneath his. He didn’t know why she’d suddenly decided to let him kiss her—no, to kiss him—but he wasn’t about to lift his lips from hers to wonder why.
He seized the moment, tasting her, drinking her, breathing her. He was no longer quite so confident that he would be able to convince her to become his mistress, and it was suddenly imperative that this kiss be more than just a kiss. It might have to last him a lifetime.
He kissed her with renewed vigor, pushing away the niggling voice in his head, telling him that he’d been here, done this before. Two years earlier he’d danced with a woman, kissed her, and she’d told him that he’d have to pack a lifetime into a single kiss.
He’d been overconfident then; he hadn’t believed her. And he’d lost her, maybe lost everything. He certainly hadn’t met anyone since with whom he could even imagine building a life.
Until Sophie.
Unlike the lady in silver, she wasn’t someone he could hope to marry, but also unlike the lady in silver, she was here.
And he wasn’t going to let her get away.
She was here, with him, and she felt like heaven. The soft scent of her hair, the slight taste of salt on her skin—she was, he thought, born to rest in the shelter of his arms. And he was born to hold her.
“Come home with me,” he whispered in her ear.
She said nothing, but he felt her stiffen.
“Come home with me,” he repeated.
“I can’t,” she said, the breath of each word whispering across his skin.
“You can.”
She shook her head, but she didn’t pull away, so he took advantage of the moment and brought his lips to hers one more time. His tongue darted in, exploring the warm recesses of her mouth, tasting the very essence of her. His hand found the swell of her breast and he squeezed gently, his breath catching as he felt her pucker beneath him. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to feel her skin, not the fabric of her dress.
But this was not the place. They were in his mother’s garden, for God’s sake. Anyone could come across them, and to be frank, if he hadn’t pulled her into the alcove right by the door, anyone could have seen them. It was the sort of thing that could cause Sophie to lose her job.
Maybe he should be pulling her out into the open, where all the world would see, because then she’d be on her own again, and she’d have no choice but to be his mistress. Which was, he reminded himself, what he wanted. But it occurred to him— and frankly, he was rather surprised he had the presence of mind at such a moment for anything to occur to him—that part of the reason he cared so much for her was her remarkably solid and unflinching sense of herself. She knew who she was, and unfortunately for him. that person didn’t stray from the bounds of respectable society.
If he ruined her so publicly, in front of people she admired and respected, he’d break her spirit. And that would be an unforgivable crime.
Slowly, he pulled away. He still wanted her, and he still wanted her to be his mistress, but he wasn’t going to force the issue by compromising her in his mother’s household. When she came to him—and she would, he vowed—it would be of her own free will.
In the meantime, he would woo her, wear her down. In the meantime, he’d—
“You stopped,” she whispered, looking surprised.
“This isn’t the place,” he replied. For a moment her face showed no change of expression. Then, almost as if someone were pulling a shade over her face, horror dawned. It started in her eyes, which grew impossibly round and somehow even more green than usual, then it reached her mouth, her lips parting as a gasp of air rushed in.
“I didn’t think,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
“I know.” He smiled. “I know. I hate it when you think. It always ends badly for me.”
“We can’t do this again.”
“We certainly can’t do it here.”
“No, I mean—”
“You’re spoiling it.”
“But—”
“Humor me,” he said, “and let me believe the afternoon ended without your telling me this will never happen again.”