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His greatcoat streamed out behind him, as he charged at her, eyes fierce, face scowling, heated, furious, intent.
She could not move. There was nowhere to go, nothing but him and his approach, shrinking the world and thinning the air and heating her blood, so that it rushed through her veins and swirled and pooled and throbbed.
He hardly slowed even when he reached her. Still moving, he caught her face in one hand, her waist in the other. Their bodies slammed into each other, and she was reaching into him, gripping him, her hungry mouth meeting his. His lips were hot and demanding, and she answered with demands of her own. She twisted one hand in his hair and the other in his waistcoat, and she must have dropped her bonnet, but who cared, she had a million bonnets and only one chance to kiss him. Only one chance to own his lips, to claim his mouth, to taste, to explore, but—curse him!—his tongue was in the way, and she had to battle it with her own, until he made a noise in his throat— Was that laughter? Did he darelaughwhile he kissed her?
But oh, so help her, she needed more.
As if sharing her urgency, his hand curved under her buttocks and hauled her against him, the whole hard hot length of him, their chests, their hips, and there, yes,there, she could almost feel him. If she could just press closer, deepen this kiss—
He was feverish too, his hands roaming, finding her waist, her breasts, as their tongues tangled, and her hands roamed too, under his coat, hunting his heat and promise, and he kissed her so she was full of him, his taste, his scent, his touch, and yet not full enough, never enough. She needed more. Why did he not touch her more?
Oh, she wanted to laugh too, from the sheer exhilaration! This was everything she remembered. The fever in her blood and under her skin, spreading through her like wildfire, smashing everything open, everything she had learned to keep locked away, and all these feelings—these feelings she had buried so deep—once more they burst free.
Splendid, he had said.Splendid.
They broke off the kiss to gulp at air, but still his arms clutched her, and his lips burned a trail along her jaw, her cheek, her ear. Every inch of her yearned for those lips. Her lips yearned for every inch of him.
“Oh Arabella, you annihilate me,” he muttered. “I can’t not… I can’t not touch you. Oh hell. I don’t care. Whatever the consequences, I don’t care.”
Arabella froze. She heard herself breathing, hard and heavy like a winded horse.
“The consequences?” she repeated.
He released her so abruptly she staggered. He spun away, laughing mirthlessly, his hands raking his hair, as if he had so much energy coursing through him the only way to dispel it was to move.
Arabella did not move. She stood very, very still.
“I’ll end up married to you after all. How Father must be laughing in his grave right now! All these years I insisted I would not do his bidding.” His back was still to her, as he shook his head. “Your reputation.”
“By all means, let us consider my reputation.”
Still he did not turn. “I do not owe you for what happened in London. But if anyone reported seeingthat, I would definitely have to marry you. Honor would demand it.”
His face was hidden, but his bitter tone told her everything she needed to know.
Thankfully, her pride was the one part of her not obliterated by his kiss.
“How inconvenient it must be to have honor,” she drawled. “I am eternally grateful I do not suffer from that particular flaw.”
He nodded, as though she had confirmed what he already suspected. Then he threw up his hands and started to pace.
“That night in London. I still don’t understand why you came to me that night. And Sculthorpe. What happened with Sculthorpe?”
Memories and thoughts and possibilities pounded through her, as if she had a dozen hearts and every one of them was working double time.
She could tell him everything. Tell him about her fear and loathing, about Sculthorpe’s obsession. Admit why she had misused Guy.
He had tried to outdo her that night in London, but in the end he had done her bidding. That made him hate himself, and hate her, and that—well, she understood that. She understood that he could kiss her and laugh with her and stand by her side, while hating a part of her too. That was the trouble with feelings; they were complex and messy and contradictory, and, oh, if only she could pack them neatly into boxes, tied with colorful ribbons.
If she told him what Sculthorpe had done? Mama had started whispers at the ball. Over time, the news would circulate, and by springtime everyone would know. But for now…
If she pulled back her sleeves to reveal her fading bruises? How that would offend Guy’s blessed principles! Honorable and impulsive, he would hare off to challenge Sculthorpe. If any blood were shed, Arabella would always know it was her fault, because she had known the power of her words, because she understood Guy’s character and how his principles would make him wade into a fight.
“Once more, I apologize for how I treated you in London,” she said, sounding stiff to her own ears.
“I sought an explanation, not another apology.”
“There is nothing to tell. I have said I will release you.”
