Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Rory settled back in his chair and watched Miss Windermere—Juliet.
He supposed if she could call him Rory, then he could, at least, think of her as Juliet.
Like for like.
Wasn’t that what she’d said against his mouth earlier?
His yes had thrown her off balance. Good. He supposed she could stand to be set on the back foot once every so often.
But, oh, what a raven-haired beauty she was tonight in her passion and fervor.
“You’re glowing,” he said.
“Perhaps I’ve caught a fever.”
He cocked his head. “You have a ready response for every occasion, don’t you?”
“Most.”
He understood something. His direct gaze unsettled her.
Further, he might like that.
She glanced around as if something only now occurred to her. “Where is Clootie?”
“She prefers to sleep in the stables and keep an eye out.”
“Good girl.”
“Aye.”
He liked that she asked after his dog. It spoke well of a woman who liked a man’s dog.
Looking at her now, tucking into her haggis, he couldn’t help observing how she looked in this room—in his house.
So natural.
So right.
Servants began clearing plates, replacing them with two glasses and a bottle of whisky. Rory nodded and said, “That will be all for the night.”
Alone in the room with Juliet, he poured them each a dram. “Have you tasted Scotch whisky?”
Her nose looked as if it wanted to wrinkle. “I have.”
“Try this one. We have a small still on the estate.”
She took a testing sip. “It’s…earthy.”
“Prefer wine, do you?”
“I think I do,” she confessed. “The ale is nice, too.”
As they sat across from each other, her usually direct gaze avoided his as she fidgeted with the whisky tumbler. He realized he needed to say something to her. It should’ve been the first sentence out of his mouth the moment she’d entered the room. “I must offer my apology for—”
Eyes clear with certainty lifted. “The kiss.”
“Aye.”
She canted her head. “Why should you apologize?”
He blinked.
“We both know I enjoyed it.” A shy smile curled about her mouth, yet the words spoken were so…bold. “And we both know you enjoyed it, too.”
His cockstand. She was referring to the cockstand she’d stroked through his trousers.
Thankfully, she didn’t know about the one presently lifting its head.
If ever a woman could give him a cockstand with her words, she would be Miss Juliet Windermere.
Still, she needed to be set straight. “Our mutual enjoyment of the kiss is beside the point. We shouldn’t have kissed in the first place.”
“Why shouldn’t we?”
The woman was stubborn on a point, he would give her that. In case he ever doubted she was a true Windermere.
She spread her hands wide. “You and I are full-fledged adults. We are free to make our own decisions.”
“It was ungentlemanly.” He could hold to a point, too.
“My kiss was freely given. Are you apologizing because I actually was terrible at it and you wouldn’t want to do it again?”
This woman might be the death of him.
“No…no, of course not. In fact, it was the best—” He clamped his mouth shut.
“The best what?”
“The best kiss of my life.”
There, he’d said out loud what he’d been avoiding admitting to himself.
Her eyes narrowed. “It was the only kiss of mine, so I have nothing to judge it against.”
“You can trust me,” he grumbled. “It was an excellent kiss.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Irritation spiked through him. “Will I have to kiss you again to prove it?”
Now it was her who wasn’t flinching. “Perhaps.”
Of a sudden, she pushed away from the table and stood. For a moment, he thought she might flee the room. But, no, Miss Juliet Windermere was made of sterner stuff. She didn’t flee provocative conversations; she provoked them further.
With a sure step, she made her way around the table, and he turned sideways in his chair so he could appreciate her approach. A feeling settled in his gut—and lower, too.
A feeling of anticipation.
A feeling of certainty.
She would have her way.
And he would have his way with her.
Nay.
They would have their way with each other.
She came to a halt not a foot away, staring down at him, wild daring in her eyes.
And a promise, too.
The promise that whatever he wanted, she would give.
One had to be careful with such promises. One must respect them. For this promise, it was precious, and it was his duty to protect it. To protect her—even from herself.
“And how did the kiss make you feel?” she asked, a smile tickling about her soft pink lips.
Just as Rory began to answer, the joke caught up with him. He chuckled. She could be quite funny. And yet…
He wanted to answer the question.
“It made me feel all lit up inside.”
Her gaze grew serious. “We’ll make a poet of you yet.”
“All I need is the right inspiration.”
A long moment passed. It was all he could do not to reach out and pull her toward him. This afternoon had only been enough to whet an appetite, not satisfy it.
“Would you do it again?” she asked.
“What would you like me to do again?”
He was evading. He knew what.
“Kiss me.”
Rory had a choice here.
To kiss or not to kiss.
There would be no going back from a second kiss.
But, at this moment, with her body so close and the intent in her eyes so clear, he wasn’t sure why he would ever want to.
“Yes,” he growled as he caught the nape of her neck and pulled her toward him.
A frisson of triumph sparked through Juliet.
But that wasn’t all she felt—or even mostly.
What she felt as her body swayed forward and her lips met his was a desire so strong it made her trembly in ways she’d never experienced or expected.
The press of his lips was firm and the taste of his mouth sweet and earthy from the whisky as, testingly, she darted her tongue inside.
His large hands spanned her waist, and for the first time in her life, she felt small. She’d always been tall—taller than all the boys as a girl and most men as a woman. She’d always liked the feeling, in truth. But here, with this man, she liked this small feeling, too.
The afternoon’s kiss had felt like pent-up release. But here, now, she went slower, took her time to savor him—his scent, his taste, his touch—though all the same urgency from earlier flowed through her, demanding she follow this path to surrender—hers…and his.
He groaned into her mouth and tugged her waist. Swaying forward, she stepped between his parted thighs, his massive hand on the curve of her lower back, snugging her tight against him. Her body became a molten version of itself against his unyielding solidity.
“Rory,” she spoke against his mouth.
His eyes slitted open, those turquoise depths opaque with desire.
“I need you,” she whispered.
It was the only way, she saw.
She would go mad from unrequited lust if she didn’t have him.
For to have him was the only way she could let go of him.
An upside-down logic, but it held fast.
But the next instant she saw she’d approached it all wrong, for he was—for the second time today—wrenching his mouth from hers and setting her physically away from him.
But this time, unlike earlier, she planted her feet and refused to cede ground.
His head tipped back so he could hold her gaze, he said, “That should’ve put your mind at ease as to your, erm, kissing abilities.”
“Perhaps, but…”
“But?”
“But not other, erm, parts of me.”
For a woman known for her words, she was having remarkable difficulty conveying them. But what were words to this—desire…ache…craving…feeling…
This was all that mattered.
This was everything.
He gave his head a slow shake. “You mustn’t say such things out loud.”
“Who are you trying to convince? Me? Or…” Without precisely planning to, she reached for his cravat. “Yourself?”
“You’re provoking temptation, Juliet.” His voice was the consistency of crushed velvet.
Her hands began to work the knot. “And temptation leads to…” she trailed. White silk released, and his shirt flopped open, revealing the hard throb of his pulse against the base of his throat. “If this were a poem,” she continued, “what word would rhyme with temptation?”
Consummation, neither of them needed to say.
She took the two ends of his cravat in one hand and gathered her skirts with the other. She hardly knew herself. Yet…
She couldn’t think of a time when she’d been more herself.
Bundle of contradictions, indeed.
“Would you do more?”
“More?” he rumbled, the syllable naught more than a scrape against his throat.
With measured calculation, she placed one leg, then the other, over his muscled thighs. Of a sudden, the intimate air between their mouths was the only air capable of giving her life. “More,” she whispered, the word brushing across his lips.
They both knew what more. It was there in the word left unspoken.
Consummation.
“After I agreed to be your Cyrano and write a poem for Miss Dalhousie,” she continued, “you asked if there was anything you could do for me.”
“You were to tell me later.”
She’d gone far.
Too far.
Too far to turn back now.
“I’ve thought of the something later.”
“Miss Windermere—”
“Juliet,” she said. “I want you to call me Juliet.”
“Juliet—”
“And I want you to make love to me.”
“No,” he said simply, certainly.
She was only now seeing how his uncomplicated way of viewing the world could present a problem.
“You’re a virgin,” he continued. “You will marry someday.”
She pulled back, but didn’t move off him. And he made no move to make her. In fact, his hands were on her waist, steadying her so she wouldn’t fall.
He would never let her fall.
He’d already proven it once.
But she had him here, finally. “I shall not marry.”
“You certainly shall.”
Her reasons had long been clear in her mind. “I’m an heiress who doesn’t need a husband. I can make my own rules.”
He snorted, dismissive. “You Windermeres.” He shook his head. “You all think that.”
“But we can,” she said, undeterred. “And we do.”
“And yet here you sit, straddling”—a crack in his voice released on the word—“me without having followed through on your own logic.”
“Pardon?” she asked, indignation building. She very well might’ve shot to her feet if his hands hadn’t been holding her firmly in place.
“It’s simple,” he continued, evenly. “If anyone were to find out about us as we are now, you would have to marry.” A ragged heartbeat of time ticked past. “Me.” Another beat. “Would you risk your freedom for that future?”
Yes.
But how to say it without sounding positively desperate for him.
The fact was she’d risk anything for him in this moment of absolute, aching need.
Even forever.
She pressed her mouth against his ear. “No one will ever know,” she cooed into the intimate space. “It’ll just be this one night.”
His jaw clenched as if he were waging silent battle with himself.
No matter.
She would win the war.
And the part of herself that had nothing to do with the mind, but only with feeling intuited exactly how.