Chapter 10 #4
His gaze sharpened, fixing on her. Hetty blushed, realising belatedly how that sounded. She had not meant to imply that they would be there together, at least, she didn’t think she had.
Mr Bramwell’s grey eyes were stormy, turmoil swirling deep in their depths. Hetty had the sudden desire to quiet the storm, to discover what troubled him so and fix it, at least to ease the tension she sensed thrumming beneath his skin.
It was pure instinct to reach out, to cover his hand with hers. It was the act of a friend; she told herself, offering reassurance, but when his other hand reached for her, cupping her cheek, she was glad. So very glad. His hand was warm, large, and a little rough against her cheek.
Hetty closed her eyes, turning her face into his palm and pressing her lips against it.
She heard his swift inhalation, sensed that she had crossed a line, and opened her eyes in time to see his head lower towards her. Instead of turning away, like a proper young lady ought to do, she lifted her face to meet his kiss.
His lips were soft, as was the kiss. Tentative at first, he teased her mouth with his own, but then something changed.
Hetty reached for him, throwing her arms around his neck in the same instant that he pulled her close.
Suddenly she was enveloped in heat, crushed by the power of a hard, male body, the kiss no longer tender, but searing, demanded, asking things she had no answer for but was only too willing to agree to if he showed her how.
He made a low sound, a tortured groan that thrilled her to her very core, and then thrust her away as if she was the one who burned him, who had branded him, instead of the other way around.
“Bad… bad idea,” he said breathlessly. “Oh, Christ.”
He walked away from her, raking a hand through his hair, looking as though he’d rather tear it out at the roots.
Hetty flushed, humiliated by the depths of his regret for what he’d done. For what they’d done.
“Think nothing of it,” she said coolly, astonished that her voice remained steady when everything inside her was still quivering with shock and desire. “I am sure I shan’t.”
It took every iota of will to remain in the room, to gather the shreds of her pride and return her attention to the plans.
She stared down at them, trying to make sense of what seemed now only an incomprehensible arrangement of lines.
Her lips were still burning, the taste of his mouth and the faint trace of port invading her senses.
“Hetty,” his voice was soft, and Hetty feared that if he dared to apologise to her, she might lose her mind and do something appalling.
“The bathing rooms are very large, which is elegant, I’m sure, but might they be a bit chilly in the winter months—that’s assuming the hotel is open then, which I suppose it might not be.
I can imagine it’s rather bleak here at that time, though I like the winter.
There’s nothing like wrapping up warm and going for a brisk walk over hill and dale.
” She was rambling, and she knew it, but she couldn’t seem to make herself stop.
“Hetty, you must let me—”
“Oh, no. No, no. This is all wrong. You cannot put a dressing table there with the window behind, are you mad? It would mean the person attempting to do their hair or apply cosmetics is backlit. Their face would be in shadow, and if the sun is out, they are likely to be blinded. I cannot imagine what possessed you to place it so. Far better to put it beside a window, with the mirror angled to catch the light. There, you see, I knew you needed my help.”
She dared a glance at him to find him watching her curiously and turned her attention back to the plans, determined to find fault. If kissing her was such a mistake, she would show him the others he’d made too. It was petty and childish, but it was better than running from the room and crying.
“There’s not enough room for gowns. If you intend this to be a space for the highest ranks of the ton, you must understand that they will bring clothing enough for several months, even if they are only staying for a week.”
“There will be wardrobes in the rooms as well, I believe Mrs King has chosen a very elegant design.”
“Well, I am glad to hear someone thinks of a lady’s comfort. I hope that helps, Mr Bramwell. Now, if you will excuse me, it has been a long day, and I am rather tired and—”
“Hetty, be quiet for a moment, damn you,” he growled, reaching for her as she hurried for the door. His hand closed on her arm and she stopped, glaring at it.
“Unhand me.”
“I will, only don’t run away from me. I never took you for a coward.”
She gasped with indignation, turning to glare at him as he released his grip on her.
“Fine,” she said, folding her arms. “Say your piece. Tell me what a mistake it was to kiss me and apologise for it. Explain how it ought never to have happened and that you wish it hadn’t.
I’m sure you’ll feel m-much better.” Hetty snapped her mouth shut, hating herself for the telltale tremble in her voice.
His gaze softened and the idea that he might pity her only made her wilder still.
“Hetty, you don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” she retorted, putting up her chin.
He made a sound of frustration, which she supposed she could not blame him for.
She was awful. She knew she was, she always had been.
Too quick to take offense, too ready to argue, too opinionated and ready to share those opinions whether or not they were wanted.
Oh, why could she not learn to be quiet and biddable like Cilly?
“You are the most vexing woman alive, Hetty, but as clever as you are, or think you are, you do not know what goes on in my head, and I’ll thank you not to put words in my mouth.” He spoke with remarkable restraint, bearing in mind how hard she had tried to provoke him.
Hetty sighed and allowed a little of her anger to fall away. “I suppose that’s true,” she allowed, turning her back on him and busying herself with tidying the plans. “But you were going to apologise.”
“Guilty as charged, but I am not such a brute as all that. I may not be as charming as my brother, but I am not such a fool as to tell you I wished I hadn’t kissed you. Not when it wouldn’t be true, at least.”
Hetty’s hands stilled, and she turned, giving him a wary glance. “Oh?”
“It was a mistake,” he said firmly. “But I don’t regret it.”
“Well, I was half right,” she muttered.
He smiled at her, and the sight of it, wry and regretful, made her heart ache. Idiot.
“I am not for you, or for anyone. I am wedded to my work. As you have observed, I am ambitious, and I have no room in my life for a wife, certainly not for a family, even if I could afford such things. And besides all that, your father would have my head on a pike before he consented to such a match. The daughter of a duke could do rather better than the penniless younger son of a viscount.”
“I don’t believe I was expecting a marriage proposal,” Hetty replied crossly, trying to make herself believe his words had not shrivelled up some tiny seed of hope that had taken root in a hidden corner of her heart.
“Well, after a kiss like that, you ought to be.”
There was a somewhat awkward silence.
“I don’t want us to be at odds, Hetty. I do like you, and I respect your opinion. Whilst I know very well you were doing your best to rile me, I take your point about the position of the dressing table. That, at least, is easily remedied.”
She nodded. He was being kind, tactful too, and she still wanted to cry.
“I hope we can be…”
“Friends?” she said with a brittle smile.
“Yes. Why not?”
“Why not, indeed,” Hetty said briskly. She walked to him, hand outstretched.
He took it, regarding her warily as they shook. “Friends,” she repeated.
Mr Bramwell nodded. “Friends.”
“Then I shall bid you good night, Mr Bramwell,” she said politely, and made her way to the door.