With one step, the remaining space vanished. He took her face in his hands and kissed her. It was not the kiss he had imagined in his more disciplined moments, when he had tortured himself with thoughts of gentleness. There was nothing gentle in the first instant of it. He kissed her with all the restraint he had been denying, all the jealousy he despised, all the longing he had refused to name. Her mouth was warm beneath his, startled and soft, and for one terrible second, she went utterly still.
Then she answered him. The world altered.
Her hands came to his coat, not to push him away, but to hold on. Her fingers curled into the fabric, and the slight desperate pull of them drove the last of his reason from the room. He angled his mouth over hers and drew her nearer, with one hand sliding to her back, and the other into the loose silk of her hair. She made a faint sound, which was small, breathless and almost angry, and it moved through him with such force that he nearly forgot where they were, who they were, all the rules that had once seemed sufficient to save them.
Frances rose toward him. She kissed him as she argued, with feeling and fire, as though surrender itself must be made into defiance. Her hands pressed against his chest. His arm tightened at her waist. The green silk slipped beneath his palm. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart, or perhaps it was his own.
He wanted…
No.
The thought struck him like cold water. Or perhaps it struck her first.
Frances tore herself back. The separation was small in distance and violent in effect. She stumbled one half step away, lifting a hand to her mouth. Her eyes were wide, darkened with shock, her breathing uneven. The firelight caught the disorder of her hair, the flush across her cheeks, the tremor in her fingers.
Andrew stood frozen.Hehad done this.Hehad crossed the line he had drawn himself. Worse, she had crossed it with him, and the knowledge was both intoxicating and unbearable.
“Frances,” he whispered.
She shook her head once, sharply. “No.”
The word struck him harder than accusation.
“I should not have–”
“No,” she repeated, though her voice was not steady. “Don’t. Don’t make it worse by apologizing as though I was not there.”
He fell silent. She drew a breath, then another, as if assembling herself piece by piece. That composure of hers returned slowly, imperfectly, and he hated himself for having shaken it.
“I shall go to the library,” she said. “I will spend the night there.”
The words cut through what remained of the heat between them.
“No.”
Her eyes flew to his. “Andrew–”
“No,” he echoed, feeling more controlled now, though control felt like something dragged over broken glass. “You will not sleep in the library.”
“I cannot remain here.”
“You can. I cannot.”
She stared at him. He turned away at once, because if he looked at her much longer, he did not trust himself to say anything wise. He crossed to the chair, took up his coat where he had thrownit earlier, and pulled it on with more force than the garment deserved.
“Andrew.”
Her voice stopped him at the door. He did not turn. For one moment, all he could hear was the fire, the distant hush of the house, and the memory of her breath against his mouth.
“I will not have you made uncomfortable in your own chamber,” he told her.
“It is yours as much as mine.”
“No.” His hand closed around the door handle. “Not tonight.”
He opened the door. Cooler air met him from the corridor, but it did nothing to steady the tumult in his chest. He stepped out before she could answer, before he could weaken, before he could turn back and discover whether the shock in her eyes had been fear, regret, or something far more dangerous.
Then Andrew shut the door behind him and marched toward the library.
