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He escaped first. “Last night—”
“It wasn’t your fault—” she interrupted.
“I should never have—”
“It’s just—”
They spoke over each other in their haste to clamber off the shifting sands beneath their feet. To pull free of a quagmire that had cataclysm written all over it.
Aidan stepped into the breach opening between them before she could drag herself completely clear. His hand found her cheek. Traced the silver line of her scar with a touch that had already claimed her in a thousand secret places before he’d ever laid a finger to flesh. His lips parted as if he meant to speak, and she found herself leaning in to hear. Instead, he lowered his head. Slanted his mouth against hers, his warmth as welcome as the May sunshine.
This was wrong. All wrong. The Earl of Kilronan didn’t steal kisses from women like her. He could have anyone he wanted. Could snap his fingers and have them lined up awaiting his choice. Her head knew it. Her heart knew it. Her body didn’t give a damn.
If Leda could surrender, so could she.
Take that, Miss High-in-the-Instep Osborne.
Cat answered Aidan’s kiss. Opened to him, letting his tongue dip within. Swirl and tease in a playful exuberance that conflicted with his usual sober caution. His hand found her hair. The other curving around the back of her neck. Drawing her closer until the buttons of his coat bit into the fabric of her gown. Until the rise and fall of his chest rested beneath her own open palm.
He lifted his head, the slow burn of his gaze illuminating a glimpse of her past. The alluring beguilement of forbidden fruit. The desire to be loved so fierce within her that any scrap resembled a feast. And waiting at the end, the empty, gnawing hunger when reality hit.
She stepped back, his hands falling away, his features blurring behind a wash of idiotic tears. She wiped them away with her sleeve.
“Excuse me,” all she managed through lips still tingling from his kisses.
He let her go without comment. Watched her push back through the boxwood in silence. Never once tried to follow her.
At the terrace steps, Cat met the housekeeper. “Have you seen His Lordship? I’ve looked all over and can’t find him anywhere within.” She scanned the garden, her hands fluttering uselessly at her apron. “He has guests. Lady Osborne and Miss Osborne are here.”
“There he is.” Cat pointed toward the shrubbery, the secluded stand of laburnum, Leda and her god hidden away in eternal orgasm.
Aidan emerged, his body stiff, face set in rigid lines.
As Mrs. Flanagan descended to impart her news, Cat slipped within. Made her way with steady steps to her room where she could contemplate the perfection of his kiss in solitude. Slow her frantic heart. Regroup.
She would take it as she found it.
Geordie would have been proud of her.
Aidan watched her lips move. Caught the play of eye and toss of head signifying interest. The adroit movements of her body assuring him of her attraction while hoping to ascertain his own.
And Barbara Osborne was attractive. Hair the summer yellow of wheat. Eyes clear and blue. A body that enticed from the point of her dimpled chin to the sleek length of her legs. Not that he’d seen her legs. It had been Cat’s limbs he’d been fantasizing about ever since he’d seen them encased in those damned sexy trousers. Asking—no, begging—to be skimmed with a lover’s touch. He cleared his throat. Focused on Miss Osborne’s smile. The symmetry of her face. There was no denying the gods had been good to her.
He swallowed, slapping a mental hand to his forehead.
Gods led to Zeus led to Leda led to that thrice-damned statue. The kiss it inspired. The flare of luscious heat it ignited. He shifted in his seat.
When had he begun thinking with his lower extremities? Here sat his future. Equal to
him in rank, in background. Possessing the drive and ambition and energy as well as the sizeable dowry to fully restore his family’s wealth and rightful place in society.
Miss Osborne was everything he wanted and needed in a wife. So why was it Cat who kept provoking him into one awkward situation after another? What impulse had him seeking her out just to be near her? What elemental urge kept overriding good sense? Whatever it was he needed to get a grip on himself. He was no longer the immature scoundrel led by his cock.
Miss Osborne tipped her head in expectation. Damn. Had she said something? Was he supposed to answer? He looked from her to her mother, praying for inspiration. Settled for, “I defer to your judgment. As always.”
It worked. She sat back, pleased with herself. Her mother preening as if the marriage banns had already been read.
So what was he waiting for? What kept him from forming the words “Will you marry me?” and taking the final steps to securing his future? It was honor, surely. Pride, certainly. Until he’d freed himself from the chains of the past, he didn’t feel comfortable declaring himself.
