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“I’ve yet to receive any complaints.”
A shiver rippled over her, as surely as if he had trailed one of those fingers down her spine.
She had to look at him then. Had to hold his summer-green gaze, had to bear the roiling emotions and sensual memories, until he tugged his hands free and shoved them in his pockets.
“I still do not understand what happened that night in London,” he said. “I had vowed never to speak of it, to never speak to you at all, but that night, it…”
Beyond him lay the autumn patchwork of orange woodlands and fields in green, gold, and brown. “It doesn’t matter,” she said to the landscape. “It is over and finished now.”
“Is it?”
She had no reply. Silence fell but for the wind in the leaves, the fluty song of a mistle thrush. From the corner of her eye, she saw him slide a hand from his pocket. As if called, she turned back to him. He raised that hand and brushed her lips.
“Do you ever think about that night?” he asked. “The way we touched each other? What we did?”
It was a pointless question with only one conceivable answer.
“No,” Arabella lied. “Never.”
He edged closer. If she stepped away, she would be in the brambles. She did not mind. His closeness thrilled her. How easy it would be, to twine her arms around his neck. Lower his mouth to hers, crush her aching chest to his. She could imagine it as easily as if she had done it a thousand times.
In her mind, she already had.
“You must think of it occasionally,” he murmured, so close a strong gust of wind could push them into each other’s arms. “Not even alone in your bed at night, remembering how your body felt against mine? Reliving my touch, perhaps?”
Heat coursed through her, stirring up that now familiar pulse between her thighs, that molten pressure in her belly. He could not know what she did alone in her bed at night.
“You’re giving yourself away, Hardbury,” she managed to drawl. “You might spend your nights dreaming of me, but I can hardly remember it.”
“You’re right, I confess. I do remember it.” His voice was lower now, its rough edge plucking at her. She let her body remember as his words caressed her, his eyes holding hers fast. “I remember every curve and angle of your body. I remember the taste of your skin. I remember how you responded to my touch, so wild, so furious, so demanding. It was splendid.Youwere splendid.”
Her breath caught. “Do not mock me.”
“I don’t.” The words were simple, sincere. “It was like standing in the middle of a storm. It’s thrilling and dangerous and leaves one feeling intensely alive. I cannot stop wondering what else lies behind those eyes.”
No response to that: She herself no longer knew. But he did not wait for a reply.
Lazily, he looked sideways and lifted one arm away from her. The movement swept his coat against her legs, and even that touch of fabric beguiled her sensitive skin. She watched—as if in a dream, as if this were a lazy summer afternoon and not a fresh day in autumn, as if they were only a man and a woman and not Guy and Arabella—as he extended one long arm toward the blackberry bush, toward a plump, ripe berry she could never touch, for fear of its messy juice.
Mesmerized, she watched him catch that berry between two fingers. It tumbled eagerly into his embrace and he carried it back between them. But then his hand drew too close to see, so she looked at his face instead. His eyes were on her mouth, his lowered lashes thick and dark, his expression mesmerized too, as she felt the press of that soft fruit against her lips. She parted her lips, and he pushed the berry between them. She took it into her mouth, let her tongue dart forward to claim it, let her tongue linger on his finger, which lingered in her mouth, desire a bittersweet jolt in her loins. His finger slid away. She closed her mouth and bit down on the blackberry, reveled in the sweet juice flooding over her tongue and filling her mouth and conquering her senses. Never had a berry tasted so good, or been so perfect and so dissatisfying. She swallowed and licked her lips, inviting another look from his heated, hooded eyes.
He was going to kiss her.
How she wanted him to. How she wanted to kiss him.
She touched his face. A mistake: It broke the spell.
He stepped back with a “No,” and pivoted and strode away, greatcoat flapping, head shaking, while she stood there, foolishly poised for their forbidden kiss.
* * *
Arabella heardvoices carrying on the wind, and shook herself out of her reverie.
How careless, that even for five minutes she had forgotten that this estate was large but teeming with people. Had anyone spied that intimate interlude, gossip would spread and everything would be lost.
But Guy had disappeared, and the intruders had not seen her. She slipped away.
She hardly remembered arriving at the gardens, rushing with her desperate need for the solitude of her room, where she could pull herself together, before she came undone.
