Page 92 of Yielding to Love

“I hope that Manfred…acquitted himself better. You deserve—” He stopped. She was shaking her head.

“He was not well,” she said. “We were never together.”

“Oh.” One might think that would please him, but it did not. “Oh, Camellia. I’m sorry.”

“Yes.” She snuffled and tried to smile. “I have uncommonly bad luck.”

“I should have kissed you.”

“Oh,” she groaned. “Please let us not talk about that fight. We said such awful things to one another.”

“I said awful things. You spoke the truth.” He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. “I was wrong not to kiss you.” She was blushing furiously now, turning his heart to pudding. “It is my worst regret.” It was not only kisses that had been lacking. He’d read Aretino’s Amours. It had been instructive. While much of it seemed incredible and not particularly enviable, he did learn that there were things he should have done. Things he would have liked to have done. To do. But would not. He edged half a step closer. “May I? Just a kiss, Camellia?” Nothing more. He was not that amoral.

She made a small squeaking sound of assent, tilting her face up to him. Letting desire overcome his anxiousness, he touched his lips to hers. Desire took over completely. Kissing was not difficult. Not a puzzle to solve. Not when her lips were so soft. Yielding. Sweet. And responsive.

It was more than one kiss. Rather it was several minutes of kissing. His hands ached to explore her. He wanted to lay her down amongst the greenery. But he drew back. Stepped away.

“Camellia, I care for you a great deal.” Care for? That was weak. He was in love with her. Of course, he was. If he hadn’t been, he would not have been so furious with her. He would have been relieved by her rejection, not cut to the quick. How could he recognize love so easily in others yet not in himself? How smug he’d been, barreling in to straighten out his brothers’ relationships, when he was incapable of managing his own. “If I were able to court a wife—”

“It was just a kiss.” She laughed awkwardly. “I don’t expect a proposal. Let’s not have that fight again.”

“You are young and beautiful, Camellia. And generous. Clever. You deserve better than to be tied to another wreck of a man.”

“You are hardly a wreck.”

“But I will be. My disease will return. It always does. And one of these days, it will kill me.” He had to eat, after all. He had to eat in this world, with all its hidden poisons. “I love you too much to put you through that.”

There. He’d managed to say the words. And in response, her eyes softened. Glistened.

“Oh, Crispin.” She breathed. Then she said in a singsong voice, “If you knew how devotedly I’ve loved you, and how long…”

“Camellia, I can’t—”

“Don’t torture yourself making excuses. If you were to ask for me again, I would still say no.” Her eyes welled, and tears leaked from the sides. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be the uncomplaining nurse. The selfless wife. The grieving widow.” She turned away and plucked at the leaves of a stunted orange tree as if the plant had offended her. “This is the most selfish thing I have ever said, but I cannot put myself through that.”

“That is not selfish. It is self-preserving.” He was not hurt, but he was devastated. This conversation had all the elements of two fools throwing away a chance for happiness. But it was a false chance. And they must not be taken in. “I should leave. We can part friends now. If we continue to spend so much time in each other’s company, people will make assumptions.”

“That I have set my cap for you.”

“Or that I am taking advantage of you. Or that a wedding is imminent.” He’d leave before nightfall. Slink out. “But Camellia, if you should ever need anything, please get word to me. I won’t fail you again.”