Her name on his lips stole the breath from her chest. It felt like a plea, so soft... so unguarded. Something inside her fractured in that instant, surrendering to the pull she had been resisting for so long.
Before she could think better of it, before reason could barge in and stop her, she let instinct seize her. She leaned forward, closing the narrow space between them, and pressed her lips to his.
The world seemed to still. Heat coiled low in her stomach, and without thinking, she braced herself, slipping her left hand onto his lap, so she could lean closer, steady herself against him as her lips lingered against his. The sensation was dizzying, overwhelming. His warmth, his nearness, the faint hitch of his breath.
She did not stop until her own lungs protested, until her chest rose and fell too sharply to ignore. Breathless, she broke away at last, panting, her lips tingling from the stolen kiss. Only then did clarity return.
What had she done?
Her mind reeled. Her pulse hammered as she realized how far she had stepped—no, leapt—over every boundary he had set. She dared not look at him, not when he sat so terribly still, not when silence stretched like a blade between them. Shame prickled hot in her chest, and she fumbled for words, for some feeble excuse.
“Magnus…” Her voice faltered. “I?—”
She never finished.
In the next breath, his hand slid to the back of her head, and he drew her forward again. His mouth captured hers with none of the hesitation she had shown, none of the restraint. The kiss deepened instantly, erasing her doubts, devouring her apology before it could even be formed.
The kiss was nothing like she had imagined. It was fierce, consuming, like a pent-up hunger she had no idea was burning inside her. Her hands, no longer trembling, framed his face as though she were afraid he might vanish if she let go.
He released her hand at last, only for his arm to slide boldly around her waist. In one swift pull, he drew her so close that she was no longer merely seated beside him; she was leaning into him, her stomach pressed firmly to his.
A low sound escaped him, a moan muffled into her mouth, the kind that sent shivers darting through her. His hand at herwaist tightened, anchoring her against him as though he had no intention of letting her retreat. The other found its way upward, threading through her hair with restless intensity, disheveling the neat arrangement until curls spilled freely about her face.
Her pulse raced wildly as his touch traveled higher, over the line of her neck, until at last both his hands framed her face. His thumbs brushed her cheeks with startling tenderness even as his mouth claimed hers with unrelenting fervor, as though he could not decide whether to devour her or caress her.
She clung to the lapel of his coat, undone, overwhelmed, every sense sharpened by the sensation of being so completely consumed.
At last, Magnus tore his mouth from hers, though only barely. Both of them were gasping, their foreheads against each other, their breaths mingling in the space that separated them by no more than a whisper. Dorothy’s chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm, her heart pounding so hard she was sure he must feel it against his own.
His gaze fell to her lips, as though he could not bring himself to look anywhere else. His fingers brushing her mouth in a slow motion. He stroked at her lips with care, his thumb tugging lightly at the corner, the pad of his finger lingering as if memorizing the shape. The look in his eyes made her shiver. It felt hungry, intent, as though he might consume her if he dared give in further.
She dared not move, spellbound, her pulse tripping faster with each unhurried caress. He looked as though he were studying her mouth with the curiosity of an artist and the possession of a man undone, and when he bent again to capture her lips, the kiss was softer this time, gentler, yet no less demanding.
His thumb stroked the delicate skin just below her ear, slow circles at the side of her neck that sent heat sparking along her spine. The tenderness in that touch contrasted with the fervor of his mouth, and the contradiction made her tremble. Another low sound broke from him, but it was echoed by the unsteady gasp that escaped her own lips at the same moment.
Dorothy’s arms slipped around his neck, clutching him close, pulling herself nearer until there was scarcely any part of her that was not pressed to him. It was not enough. The need to be closer, impossibly closer, surged through her as though she could burrow into his very skin, hide herself within him and never emerge again.
The faint rustle of footsteps on gravel reached them, a reminder that the garden was not wholly theirs. Voices drifted faintly from a path beyond the hedges, too distant to make out, but close enough that Dorothy’s heart lurched with alarm.
Magnus broke the kiss, his breath unsteady, and for a suspended moment, neither of them moved. Then Dorothy drew back quickly, slipping from his hold, her hands trembling as she pushed a wayward curl back into place. She smoothed her skirts, fussed with her bodice, anything to compose herself, though her pulse thundered like a wild drum against her ribs. Her fingerstangled once in her hair, and she bit her lip as she tried to tame the loose strands, praying she did not look as thoroughly undone as she felt.
Magnus sat back as well, chest rising heavily, his hand raking once through his disheveled hair before he tugged at his coat, setting it right.
They sat side by side in the flowered alcove, their breaths ragged, their silence thunderous. Dorothy’s cheeks still flamed, her lips tingled, and her very bones felt unsteady. Whatever just happened, she thought with trembling clarity, had changed everything. The trajectory of their marriage, the carefully drawn lines she had promised herself she would keep. All shattered. There was no mending them, no going back to the complicated distance that had once seemed safer.
There was no going back at all.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“See, we look so similar! Do you like it!”
Dorothy fastened the last ribbon on Eugenia’s sleeve, then drew the child by the hand toward the tall mirror by the window in her bedroom. The afternoon light caught the sheen of silk and muslin, setting the pale purple of Eugenia’s new gown aglow. Dorothy stood behind her, arranging the skirts so they fell in graceful folds, then she leaned closer, smiling at their reflections.
Eugenia’s small mouth curved into a smile, and with surprising clarity she answered, “Yes, Dorothy. Very much!”
Dorothy’s breath caught. She had hoped for delight, but to hear the words spoken so firmly was almost too much. Just a week ago, before their journey to London, Eugenia had been content with murmurs and half-formed syllables. Now, she stood tall in her little gown, speaking with a certainty that seemed miraculous.
Not that Dorothy wished to make too much of it, not aloud at least. She would not risk startling Eugenia or turning this newfound confidence into something self-conscious. Yet her heart brimmed with such excitement she feared it might spill over.
