Chapter 6 #2
The intimacy of his words unsettled her, contradicting every story she’d ever heard about him.
Louisa began to pace, her steps consuming the length of the rug, her skirts rustling against the pounding in her veins.
Each circuit brought her closer to him, then further away, as if she orbited a fire she dared not touch.
“You could have ended this,” she accused, turning sharply. “A single word this morning, and society would have abandoned the tale for the next scandal.”
He watched her, unblinking. “And what would you have preferred? That I declare you beneath my notice? That I insult you for the gossips?”
“Yes!” she said, too loudly. “No. I…” The thought slipped away.
He stepped forward, carefully, almost reverently. “I won’t do it, Louisa. I won’t let them believe you are unworthy of desire or that I’m indifferent to you. Not when…” He halted, the words catching on his tongue.
She glared at him, desperate for something to anchor her. “You’re drunk,” she accused.
He laughed, but the sound was dry. “Not nearly enough.”
They stood close now, the air between them taut. Louisa could see the flecks of gold in his irises, the faint scar at the corner of his mouth. The scent of him enveloped her, orange peel and clove, sweat and brandy, underlined by a restlessness that mirrored her own.
He reached for her slowly, giving her a chance to step away. When she didn’t, his fingers trailed down her arm, just above the cuff of her sleeve. His touch was light, barely there, yet it sent a shock straight to her heart.
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
He paused, letting his thumb rest on the inside of her wrist, feeling the flutter of her pulse. “Because you are the only person who has ever dared to challenge me. The only one who ever wanted more than the ruse.”
She closed her eyes, the words sinking in and tangling with every wall she’d built. “You shouldn’t,” she said. “You shouldn’t want me.”
He smiled, and it was the saddest smile she’d ever seen. “I dare you, Primrose. I dare you to stop pretending you don’t want more.”
For a heartbeat, she resisted. For a heartbeat, she was still the girl who could outwit any man alive.
Then she was not.
She surged forward, her mouth crashing against his with a violence that surprised them both.
The taste of brandy was sharp, but beneath it lay something else—something like forgiveness or hunger.
Niall caught her by the waist, drawing her in with a certainty that belied his earlier restraint.
Louisa clutched at the lapels of his jacket, her fingers digging into the soft wool, desperate for something solid to anchor her.
They broke apart only when the need for air became absolute. For a moment, they hovered there, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling.
“Oh,” she said, dazed.
He traced her cheekbone with the back of his hand. “Oh, indeed.”
The ache in her chest transformed—no longer pain, but an unbearable fullness. She realized, in a burst of clarity, that she had never wanted anything as much as she wanted this moment to last forever.
Niall broke the silence, his voice raw. “If you regret it—”
She cut him off with another kiss, softer this time, but no less desperate. When they parted, her hands had found their way into his hair, mussing it further. She rested her forehead against his and exhaled, slow and shaky.
“You’re still an idiot,” she whispered.
He smiled, eyes closed. “You’re not the first to say so.”
She laughed, genuine, unrestrained. It vibrated through them both.
For a minute, neither spoke. Then Louisa stepped back, putting careful distance between them. She straightened her skirt, patted her hair, and tried to recapture the chill that had defined her for so long.
“You’re impossible,” she said, but her voice held no heat.
He looked at her—really looked, as if memorizing every line of her. “And yet, here you are.”
She could not deny it. She did not want to.
For the first time in her life, Louisa found herself without a plan. The prospect was terrifying and thrilling.
She decided, for once, to see where the lack of a plan might lead as their lips came back together.
The sensation lingered long after she pulled away.
A faint warmth, the memory of his mouth on hers, the thrum in her chest. Louisa stepped back, nearly tripping on the edge of the carpet, her hands flying to her hair in a frantic attempt to restore order.
Several pins clattered to the floor, and loose strands tumbled around her burning cheeks.
Niall reached for her, but she flinched, sidestepping his gesture. “This was a mistake,” she stammered, though her pulse betrayed her.
He froze, his hand still extended, his expression a mix of longing and disbelief. “Louisa,” he began, her name soft and strange on his tongue.
She shook her head, twisting toward the door. Her fingers fumbled at the latch, numb and trembling. “I can’t,” she said, her voice thin.
“Louisa, wait,” he pleaded, quieter now.
She refused to look at him. Instead, she wrenched the door open and nearly collided with a startled footman just outside. The man's eyes widened at the sight of her—hair in disarray, bodice askew, lips unmistakably kissed. Louisa shot him a fierce glare, and he vanished.
She stalked down the corridor, her footsteps echoing on the marble. At each turn, she expected Niall’s voice, his hand, his laughter to chase her down, but none came. He let her go. Perhaps that was the greatest shock of all.
Reaching her room, she locked the door and pressed her back against the panel, sliding to the floor. The stillness within was absolute, save for her ragged breath and the pounding of her heart.
She pressed her fingertips to her mouth, incredulous at herself. It had been nothing—the kiss, a single lapse of judgment—and yet the world had turned upside down. She felt raw, as if her soul had been exposed.
She should write him. She should not. She did.
When her pulse finally steadied, she changed into a new gown, then returned, composed, to the world below stairs.
The drawing room was crowded. Lady Featherstone presided at the hearth, radiating benevolence. Lucas scowled into a glass of sherry. Lady Honoria, draped in lemon silk, occupied her usual place by the window, a retinue of admirers at her feet.
Louisa made her entrance with the poise of a queen expecting an ambush.
She barely heard the rustle of greetings as she entered, but the conversational tide shifted in her direction. She felt it, like a change in air pressure before a storm. Taking a seat, spine straight, she accepted a cup of tea.
For five minutes, all was normal. There was talk of the weather and politics, of Lord Bertram’s new stallion, of an impending dinner at the Fitzroys. Louisa answered every inquiry with measured grace, her voice steady.
Then, as if on cue, Lady Honoria leaned in to her companion, a baronet’s daughter with keen ears, and whispered, just loudly enough to be heard across the rug, “A devil dared, and the lady rose to the challenge. I do adore women with a taste for danger.”
The words sliced through the room. A beat of silence followed, during which Louisa felt every eye flicker, then fix.
Honoria’s glance, smug and knowing, settled on her. “Don’t you agree, Lady Louisa?” she asked, her voice ringing with insincere sweetness.
Louisa lifted her teacup, the gesture slow and deliberate. “If you mean to compliment my taste in novels, Lady Honoria, then yes. I do prefer a story with teeth.”
A ripple of laughter followed, but no one missed the tension in her words. Honoria’s mouth curled in satisfaction, like a cat that had caught its prey.
Louisa refused to flinch. “Of course,” she continued, “some prefer their dangers at a safe distance. I suppose that’s why they spend so much time talking about them.”
Honoria’s eyes flashed. “It’s the only sensible way, my dear. One never knows what the real thing might do.”
“True,” Louisa said. “But how else to know if one’s nerves are equal to the test?”
The standoff held. Then, with a bright and brittle laugh, Honoria broke eye contact and resumed her gossip. Conversation in the room resumed, but Louisa could feel the undercurrent, the way each guest linked her name and Niall’s together.
She sipped her tea, the bitterness grounding her. She did not let her eyes wander to the window, where the garden beckoned, or to the empty chair by the fire, which Niall had not bothered to fill. Instead, she kept her gaze steady, her shoulders squared, her composure intact.
But inside, the echo of his voice lingered. Louisa. The way he had said her name. The way he had looked at her, as if she were the answer to a riddle he’d spent years trying to solve.
She wondered if he was thinking of her now or if he had already consigned her to the ledger of regrets that men like him kept in a private corner of their hearts.
She did not know. She only knew that she was changed, irreparably, and that the taste of what she wanted would haunt her through every rumor, every whisper, every polite and poisonous tea.
It was, she reflected, the very definition of danger.
And for once in her life, Lady Louisa Pembroke did not care.