For a moment she thought it an idle question, rhetorical. But then he turned the full weight of that green gaze on her, and she realized that he was in earnest—he truly wanted her opinion, would give weight to whatever she said.
There were so many things she could have told him. She could have confessed to their shared past, their son’s parentage. And still the words stuck in her throat, along with the fear that such an action would break their fragile new bond. They would not confer to him his missing memories. If he wished to move on, to move beyond the past, what could she do but give him that freedom? “You must do as you please,” she whispered. “You cannot live in the past, my lord. It has already gone.” A lesson she would do well to take herself.
Something of a sad smile touched the corner of his mouth, a hint of lingering self-reproach. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said at last. “Perhaps the memories will return someday, and I’ll be able to properly mourn what I’ve lost. But if they never do, then I shall have wasted the present and ruined the future.” He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, insulating them from the cold. “You ought to call me Gabriel.”
“That would be—”
“Inappropriate. Yes, I know.” He heaved a sigh, looking away. “Sometimes I heartily dislike the strictures of society. Do you know that no one has called me by my name since—I can’t even recall. I was probably called Leighton even in the cradle. I might as well not even have a Christian name. It’s as though I have no identity beyond the title.”
Shehad called him Gabriel once, and he had professed to love their familiarity. For a man who struggled with his identity already, probably it was merely one more facet in which he felt inadequate. She cleared her throat. “I’m your housekeeper,” she said. “I cannot call you by your given name in public.”
His eyes darted toward her, his head canting to one side speculatively. “But in private?”
“In private, I suppose I could call you Gabriel.” She ducked her head once again toward the columns on the page, dipping the tip of her pen in the inkwell. As she scratched out another set of sums, she was aware of him pushing back from the table, skirting around the side of it until he stood beside her.
He cupped her hand in his, stopping the progress of her pen across the page. “Thank you, Claire, for letting me pretend to be a part of your family. For your kindness and understanding, far beyond that which I have any right to expect. For giving me a reason to look forward.” And he bent and touched his lips to her cheek, just an inch away from her mouth, and her skin tingled at the light pressure there.
“My lord,” she gasped. “The other servants—”
“I checked. There’s no one about. We’re mostly out of sight of the house.” The whispered words burned in her ear. As if he could not help himself, as if he were drawn by some strange compulsion, his lips coasted slowly along her cheek toward her lips. She should have pulled away, managed something beyond a feeble effort at protest. But she found herself with no more will to stop him than she had had some weeks before, and instead she sat very still and let him find her mouth with his.
His fingertips touched her chin, slightly chilled, angling her head gently. “Ah, Claire,” he sighed, almost regretfully. “You shouldn’t let me do this.”
“How could I stop you?” she asked breathlessly.
“Scream for help. Slap me. Shove me away.” Languidly, his cool fingers slid along her jaw, cradling her face in his hand. He hesitated a few seconds, as if waiting for her to choose a path, waiting for her protest. His breath whisked across her cheek as he spoke, warm and scented with cinnamon and apples. “I didn’t intend—”
“I know,” she said promptly, and her lips brushed his.
“I don’t want you to think that I—”
“I don’t,” she said, and her fingers dropped the pen to the table and found his arms, sliding up to his shoulders. And when his lips at last touched hers, it was as if she had fallen back in time, back to when she had been young and hopeful, when she had loved and had been loved. When their lives had stretched out before them, full of wonder and endless possibilities, and every good thing had seemed within her reach. For a handful of moments, as his lips moved over hers with the exquisite care of a man who desperately wished to please her, it was like reliving the past, learning one another all over again.
He might not carry the memories of it, but his hands found the exact position they had seven years ago, threaded through her hair in precisely the same way, and her skin prickled with gooseflesh that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the quiet groan that escaped him as he slanted his mouth over hers and slid his tongue between her lips. He tasted of the cider he’d had, delicious and inviting, and it evoked a warmth within her, a comforting sensation not unlike toasting her cold fingers before the hearth. As if a part of her that she had thought had died had only been encased in ice, and melted now beneath the heat of his lips on hers.
There were no thoughts in her head of servants who might be peering out of windows, or of the inherent impropriety of kissing him. There was only the sweetness of remembrance, of rediscovery. Of twining her fingers into his hair and feeling him shudder in response. The acceleration of his heartbeat beneath the palm of her other hand, knowing it mirrored her own. And she thought she could live on such a kiss for the rest of her life, if it were necessary.
Too soon he drew away, and for a moment his green eyes were clouded, hazy, and he swallowed audibly as he looked down into her face. The moment stretched out, trembling with a strange tension, and she felt her heart catch on a frantic hope that perhaps he had been cast back into the past just as she had—that perhaps itdidtake only a kiss to wake a sleeping prince, or to give a marquess back his memory.
He rubbed his temple, a little frown settling between his brows, and her breath caught in her throat around a little bubble of anticipation. Her hands drifted down to her lap, fisting in her skirts until her knuckles had gone white.Remember me, she thought fiercely, hopefully.Please. Please,remember.
A sheepish smile crossed his face at last. “I should probably apologize,” he said, “but I’m not the least bit sorry about that.”
Disappointment swelled, and she pressed her lips together to contain the little keening cry of despair that rose in her throat.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, clearing his throat, “I think I shall go find Matthew.”
And she nodded, turning back to the account books and averting her face so that he would not see the pain scrawled across it.
∞∞∞
Matthew was trying—and failing utterly—to climb a likely-looking tree some distance away. The branches looked sturdy enough, but even the lowest was at least three feet over the lad’s head, and even when he jumped for it, he could only seem to graze it with his fingertips. His muffler had come loose, dangling from about his neck, and his hair, already unruly on its own, was wind-tossed and ruffled. His cheeks were burnished a faint pink, glowing with exertion as he tried once again to jump for the branch.
“Do you need some assistance?” Gabriel asked, bracing his palm against the trunk of the tree.
Matthew made a noncommittal sound, his face screwing into an expression of concentration. “I canalmostreach,” he said as he jumped once again for the branch, and his voice was the tiniest bit hoarse, perhaps from the cold, dry air. After a few more attempts he settled back onto the balls of his feet, huffing his frustration. “Do toffs climb trees?” he asked.
Gabriel smothered a snicker. “I’ve climbed a fair few trees in my day,” he said. “I suppose I could, still.” He grabbed for the branch, testing it against his weight, then seized it firmly and hefted himself onto it. The rough bark snagged at his coat, and he heard the unmistakable sound of popping stitches, the rending of fabric.
