Chapter Fifteen
This was, regrettably, not the first time Oliver had run from a pig.
This pig, in particular. Clarabella was surprisingly fast, but although she was an ornery demon, she never did any damage that he could see—except to his boot.
And, as John liked to point out, that was entirely his fault for his boot having tassels in the first place.
Beside him, Emily let out a shocked laugh as she slipped and skidded across the ice. Her face had regained some of its colour, and he found himself captivated by her.
Her laugh. He hadn’t heard her laugh before—not like this, as though she had no choice but to be happy—and he felt as though he would do almost anything to hear it again.
If the only impact he had on her life was to remind her how to have fun, then he would consider it a job well done.
Her hand in his, he dragged them both across the yard. Clarabella charged from behind, and Mr Chambers emerged from the side of the house.
“Who let the pig out again?” he yelled into the air, and lunged after the disobedient swine.
Oliver was breathless with mirth and exertion as he pulled Emily around the side of the house, ignoring the ice underfoot until it finally got the better of him.
His legs slipped out from under him, and he twisted, jerking Emily with him.
Unable to use his other hand for balance, his shoulder crashed into the wall.
Emily lost her balance entirely and landed headfirst in a snowdrift.
The world swayed. Pain erupted from his arm, and he gritted his teeth through the first few waves as he sought to steady himself enough to assist Emily to her feet. Only, by the time he had regained his equilibrium, she was already back on her feet, her hair wet with melting snow.
“Are you all right? Your head.” He reached for her, but she laughed, backing away with her arms raised.
“Stop fussing! You’re like an old lady.”
An accusation he could say with certainty had never been levelled at him before.
The pain in his arm finally eased to manageable levels, and he bent, scooping a handful of snow and tossing it at her.
She coughed in shock, but then a wicked light appeared in her eyes, and she acquired a handful of snow of her own.
However, instead of tossing it into his face, she came closer, holding the snow aloft like a threat.
“Emily—” he started, but he didn’t get any further before she took the handful of snow and shoved it down his neck. The icy cold sank into his bones, and drops trailed down his back under his shirt. Her laugh broke free, and before he could help himself, he caught her wrist, tugging her closer.
How could he ever have thought her plain? The chaos of her curls vied against the vivid flush of her cheeks. She could have been a fairy from the glens. Wild, utterly untameable, and as likely to curse you as kiss you.
He very much wanted to kiss her.
Half-melted snow slipped from her cheek. He looked from it to her eyes. She was still smiling, but her laugh had faded into something he thought he could read—he hoped he could read.
“Your laugh,” he said, his voice low and intense. He wanted to say something to ease the tension, but nothing came to mind. All he knew was this fairy of a woman was close enough to taste, and he craved to know how she felt against his tongue.
She scoffed, her eyes searching his. “There’s nothing special about my laugh.”
“Rare things are always precious.”
“I laugh,” she insisted. “You make it impossible not to.” As she said the words, her brows drew together.
“No, don’t frown.” He released her wrist and brought his thumb to the faint line the expression produced. “Not today. Not now.”
“Oliver—”
He slid his hand to her jaw, waiting for the moment she pushed him aside. He was playing with fire, he knew, but he couldn’t help herself. If she told him to stop, he would, but until then—so long as she gave him permission . . .
His thumb traced a path to her lips, and her breath shuddered.
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he said, his voice rough. “Tell me to go inside and never approach you like this again, and I will, but damn it, Emily, I want to kiss you.”
“We can’t,” she whispered.
His thumb traced the line of her bottom lip again. “Is that a no?”
She blinked, melted snow gathering on her eyelashes. Her fingers closed around his shirt, but instead of pushing him back, she merely held on, her knuckles turning white. He waited, giving her time to tell him to stop.
Instead, she closed her eyes.
He leaned in, pressing his mouth to her temple. Her fingers traced up to the bare skin of his neck. He shivered.
“I would like—very much like—to kiss you,” he said, speaking the words against her skin. “Will you allow me that honour?”
She tilted her chin up to him in invitation. But he didn’t dare move until she whispered, the words barely audible, “What are you waiting for?”
He almost groaned with relief as he took her mouth with his.
This was not his first time kissing a lady. London and Oxford had been rife with ladies eager to be kissed, and he had practiced his art on their willingness. Before, it had been perfectly pleasant. Enjoyable. A precursor to other acts that he enjoyed still more.
This was his first time being annihilated by a kiss.
Perhaps it was the degree to which he had wanted her before they reached this moment. He could not recall this level of need before—he had needed to feel the way her lips moulded against his, the way her mouth opened to accommodate him. The wet heat of her tongue against his.
By God, he had dreamt of this, in that vague, unsubstantiated way a man fantasised about a woman he could never have—and none of his imaginings came even close to the reality.
His attraction to her had come on so suddenly, he couldn’t pinpoint the moment he had gone from thinking her plain to thinking her beautiful, in her own way.
He wanted to see every inch of her—but not in a merely carnal way. She kept secrets behind those big grey eyes, and he wanted to uncover them all. He wanted to know all of her, every piece that she did not give up so readily.
There was no reason to his desire.
All he knew was he burned for her. Soft lips, warm skin, a tongue that teased at his, mimicking acts he had no doubt she knew intimately. He cupped the back of her neck, desperate to drink more of her in. Her hands gripped his coat more firmly, tugging him closer.
Hearing her laugh had been the thing to undo him. Not practiced seduction—no, it had been the sound of her joy. A woman who laughed not because she ought, but because she couldn’t help herself.
“Emily,” he murmured against her mouth before sinking into another drugging kiss. Without meaning to, he ground against her, his hips pinning hers to the wall of the house. The accompanying rush of desire, of pleasure half unrealised, left him dizzy.
He was but a man, and there was only so much blood his brain could stand to lose until thinking became an impossibility.
She froze under him.
He had thought nothing could stop him, but that was enough; he shoved back, panting. They stared at one another. Her lips were red, her eyes luminous. Tendrils of wet hair plastered to the side of her face.
She was everything that was lovely.
“Isabella,” she said. One word, and it was as though someone had tossed a bucket of cold water over his head, drenching him. Desire faded, replaced by an understanding that made him grit his teeth.
He could not marry Isabella.
When he had felt nothing for anyone else, it had been an easy decision. She wanted a wealthy husband and escape; he wanted a pretty wife and to hide from his responsibilities. Neither had wanted to be better than their circumstances had made them.
Now, everything had changed. He did want to be better—Emily made him want to be better. He wanted to make her laugh, to ease her burdens and care for her in ways no one else had.
He did not want to marry Isabella.
No, he could not. No man could stomach marrying one sister when he craved the other. Any respect he might have had for Isabella had disintegrated after learning how absolutely she had taken advantage of Emily.
“Emily,” he said, not knowing how to tell her, but knowing he must.
“We must think of Isabella.” Emily paced past him, the ice preventing her from striding. “She deserves better than a sister who would betray her in this way.”
“You haven’t betrayed her, Em.”
“How can you say that when I kissed the man she is going to marry?” She touched her lips. “I asked you to kiss me.”
“If you want to get technical about it, darling, I rather suspect I begged.”
“What do the nuances matter when the action itself was so cruel?”
“She doesn’t know, and she won’t. And besides, it doesn’t matter—”
“Of course it matters!” She placed the back of her hand against her forehead in a gesture of frustration. “How could I have been so selfish?”
He almost laughed at the idea of Emily being selfish when it was Isabella who had been selfish all their lives. And now he was being selfish, because he wanted everything.
“Listen to me,” he said, reaching for her arm and tugging her to a stop. She looked up at him, cheeks flushed and eyes shining with shame. “It doesn’t matter what you do or don’t do, or how you behave, because I can’t do it.”
“What do you mean? You can’t do what?”
He took a deep breath. “I can’t marry Isabella.”