As a lad, he would’ve halted here, not allowed himself any further. But he was no longer a callow youth, and he pushed her sleeve lower so that the bodice drooped, allowed his lips to wander over the straps to her chemise and stays, then let his mouth descend to the lace that prettified the edge.
“Verity…” The fierce rise and fall of her chest, her smooth decolletage and swell of breasts drove all thought from his mind but one.
To make Verity his, amongst the plants and the flowers and the heady scents of nature. To not give one bloody damn about the past or the future.
He kissed her again. And again.
Yet…
He could sense a faltering, her lips hesitant, hands no longer so avid but caressing as though to soothe.
She had the right of it, of course: they were in a bloody glass-windowed hothouse and although misted with steam even before their arrival, anyone might catch a glimpse.
But as her lips dallied in dichotomy so her body stiffened, and he knew it was not merely the setting but the past that had come rushing in.
Verity’s past.
And he had the disagreeable feeling that this kiss, this lush passionate kiss, might be Verity’s kiss of farewell.
He swallowed deeply, closed his eyes and willed his ardour to subside.
“Miles?” A hand on his cheek and he lifted his lids. Her lips were rosy, a high colour to her cheekbones and her dress was rather awry. Pins had fallen from her hair and her eyes were tawny as chestnut husks. “We mustn’t,” she whispered.
With reluctance, he nodded and began straightening her sleeves, willing his gaze not to stray. He noted a splodge of grey paint on her wrist. “I can do nothing for your hair but…” He stood and marched to a watering can, let his handkerchief waft about a bit inside and then headed back.
She held it to her flushed cheek and neck before returning it. “I think you may need this too.”
In fact, he needed a dip in Kew’s lake. “We best leave. I think this place brings me to a fever.”
“It’s the lushness,” she whispered. “The assault to the senses of smell and sight. We were slightly…overcome by it.”
Overcome by you,he silently amended.
They meandered out in rather a daze but as he opened the hothouse door, the English day blasted them with reality. A damp wind stirred, carrying the unmistakeable scent of rain, and the clouds brooded better than he.
It cooled the cheeks and desires in no time and Verity hastily shoved her arms into her pelisse of deep green.
She rested her hand upon his sleeve but even that light touch was torture as they began to re-trace their steps, betwixt the hothouses.
Once returned to the route, they walked with quickening pace back past the Temple of Bellona, and Miles became aware of two matters.
One was that Verity had taken to muttering to herself. On occasion, she would also shake her head. Then mutter again.
And second… He peered up to the sky once more. The light had dimmed with an unnatural haste, and was that thunder in the distance?
How the hell were Verity and her relations to travel home in that bloody phaeton of hers? Even with the half-hood, they’d be drenched.
Perchance they could all fit into his carriage but… “We need to make haste, Verity.”
“Oh but…”
“I’d say rain is coming.”
He hurried her along the path, back through the crumbling arch, which looked abandoned rather than romantic, and past the lake. Some found the rain endearingly bucolic, but they’d never ridden thirty miles in a freezing downpour, needles of water piercing your face and soul, gunpowder the only thing kept dry.
Verity’s muttering continued unabated but Miles strode on until Kew’s side gate came into view, though it was rather a mockery to call it such, when in truth it was an extravagant brick-built carriage arch, with enough depth to keep a coach dry beneath.
Through it, however, he could see Lynch seated atop the town carriage with reins in hand, sheltering beneath the trees that lined the far side of the lane. As they neared, he could also make out Verity’s phaeton, her tiger atop in an oiled coat. The hood had been raised but a decent gust of wind would take that to the coast.
