Chapter 12 #2
“I haven’t the heart for that sort of marriage.” She continued removing pins, but he was looking at her lips. “Passionate women dislike sharing.”
“Is that you admitting you’re greedy, Miss Vane?”
“It’s me admitting I know what I want.” She leant forward, exposing the troublesome tangle. “Might you free the last pin? I can’t see where it’s caught.”
He slipped his fingers into her hair, and she pressed her lips together to trap a sweet moan. She’d need a barrow of mustard plasters to cure what this man did to her.
“And what do you want?”
Everything her sister would condemn.
“To feel alive.” To share a bottle of burgundy and laugh until her stomach ached. To meet a man’s eyes and see her own hunger reflected there. “To follow my heart wherever it leads.”
“Your heart led you to Fleet Street. You’ll be the first woman to write for The Sentinel.”
They sat barely a foot apart, though he was in no rush to free the pin. He edged closer, the uneven road conspiring to push their knees together.
“The first woman to kiss on the floor of St Mary’s,” she added.
“It doesn’t count if a man instigates it.” He freed the pin and handed it to her, his fingers stroking her palm. “It doesn’t count if he was pretending to be someone else.”
“What does count?”
He wove his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her neck to hold her exactly where he wanted her, their mouths an inch apart, his breath on hers. “It counts when you ache for the kiss. When you’re reckless enough to take it.”
Her pulse rose, the challenge hanging between them.
He waited.
She wanted him. She wanted his mouth, his hands, the persistent pressure between her thighs.
She breathed him in before claiming him and closing her eyes. He didn’t take control as he was prone to do. He let her brush her lips over his, discovering the heat, the softness, the scent of him.
His hand tightened at her nape.
A warning, perhaps. Or his surrender.
She deepened the kiss.
A faint groan vibrated through him.
The taste of him and the steady beat of her pulse drowned out everything else. He let her set the pace, let her take what she wanted. She cupped his jaw, the graze of stubble rasping against her palm, and kissed him until every small shift of his mouth made her want the next, and the next.
She had expected resistance. A lecture. One of his infuriating attempts at self-control.
Instead, he gave her nothing but honesty.
His fingers slid deeper into her hair.
The sound that escaped him was rough enough to send a tremor through her. She felt it as much as heard it. Hugh Stanton, who guarded himself like disputed territory, could be undone by her mouth.
The carriage struck a rut, and they broke apart.
For a moment, they stared at each other.
“I sense you wanted more,” she said. His hand was still tangled in her hair, his breath ragged, his lips parted. He’d kissed her with devastating confidence in his apartment. This time he’d let her lead. And it had awakened something more dangerous than desire.
“Only if you’re willing to give it.”
The more was the problem. Cold kisses could be dismissed. Easily forgotten. This need for him tugged at her like a drug.
“More comes at a price,” she said, though every traitorous part of her was already counting the coins.
“Most worthwhile things do.” He sat back, making no attempt to hide the rigid line straining against his trousers. “And it seems we’ve both developed an unfortunate taste for it.”
“It’s only unfortunate if we lose sight of what this is.”
“And what is it, Miss Vane?”
“Attraction. Dare I say desire. Both are notoriously short-lived.” Any day now, she might have a thought that didn’t include him. She might look at him and not imagine what lived beneath those fine clothes.
“I’m sure you’re right.”
No argument? No teasing contradiction?
Her heart sank. What had she expected? For him to admit she might be wrong? For him to reach for her, show there was nothing short-lived about this arrangement?
She looked out of the window as they turned off the main road. The narrow lane wound uphill, past a row of stone cottages and arable land, a patchwork of freshly ploughed earth and the green leaves of winter vegetables.
She lowered the window, grateful for the sting of air against her face. “There’s a freedom in the countryside I’ve never found in London. One can breathe here.”
“I find it suffocating myself.”
Suffocating? Another clue to add to the smashed garden and his vow never to return.
She brushed her hair from her cheek and faced him. The man who had teased her about stud farms had vanished. Whatever he saw beyond the glass had set him on edge. Grief had entered the carriage quietly, but it took up more room than either of them.
How might she ease his pain?
Memories were easier to carry when shared.
“Are we far from the Grange? Did you roam these fields as a boy? We rarely stayed anywhere long enough to put down roots.”
“The house is a mile from here.” He glanced at a field of sheep grazing on the stubble. “Tenant farmers work the estate. Three thousand acres in all. Was there a reason you never settled?”
“My parents invested in projects, not property. Not every landlord likes being woken at night to a gunpowder explosion.”
He smiled and she wished she had a hundred stories left to tell. “They sound like interesting people.”
“They were.” Her heart felt full when she thought of them. “Interesting and rather unique.”
“Much like their daughter.”
It was her turn to smile. “Melinda will be grateful for the compliment, though I have no intention of passing it on.”
“Then it’s fortunate I wasn’t speaking of your sister.”
She laughed at that. If Mr Stanton ever tired of newspapers, espionage would suit him. The man had a gift for slipping past her defences.