“Do you miss it?” she asked.
Did he miss Philadelphia? He probably should, he’d spent his entire life there before moving with his family to England so his brother could reclaim his dukedom. Yet, he didn’t. Philadelphia wasn’t his home; his home was wherever his family lived.
“No, I don’t,” he said softly.
They went back to quietly separating and putting together the dissection pieces. Sam thought she had forgotten about his remark, but she finally said, “There is some truth to what you are hinting at with Lady Hawley. To be that carefree is something I will never know.”
“Perhaps you will after you’re married.”
She shot a skeptical look at him. “Maybe for the Lady Hawleys of the world, they have the freedom to do as they like because their husbands couldn’t care less about society. The man I marry will be vastly different.”
Sam instinctively placed his hand on hers. “I hope that isn’t the case.”
“My whole life’s purpose is to marry a highly respected peer and be the most proper lady I can be,” Clara pointed out.
“That is what society says.”
“That is all that matters,” she said.
He felt a flash of anger that she believed such drivel, and she had resigned herself to it. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“It’s not possible,” she whispered.
He stared into her luminous blue eyes, captivated by them. Nothing in this world could tear him away from them. He released her hand and ran his fingers through her hair. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t pull away. They were mere inches from each other. “You should want freedom to try new things and have adventures.”
He stopped there, wanting to say more but knew he was dangerously close to crossing a line with Clara that bordered on inappropriate. His body hummed at the thought.
“What else?” she asked as if sensing he was leaving something out.
He was going straight to hell, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You need a husband who can show you passion. Someone who sets your body on fire or if he can’t give you that, then freedom to find it elsewhere.”
Did he actually say that to Clara? Was he telling her the truth or selfishly hoping that somehow, she wouldn’t find that passion within her marriage, and he would be the man she learned about passion with? What was he doing? He thought to himself, bewildered. Still, he couldn’t resist touching her. He ran a finger along her neck. “Someone who makes your pulse hammer from the touch of his fingertips.”
Clara sighed and his traitorous body stirred. He wanted to kiss her, but he shouldn’t. She was his mate. But then her tongue darted out of her perfect rosebud mouth, moistening her lower lip and Sam gave into the temptation. Mate or not, he couldn’t resist. He grabbed the back of her head and pulled her towards him, pressing his lips to her tempting mouth. She moaned and laced her fingers through his hair. Sam grabbed her up from the chair, resting her bottom on the edge of the table. He molded her form against him, plunging his tongue in and out of her mouth.
Sam was engulfed with passion and couldn’t get enough of her. He slid his hand down along the folds of her dress until he felt the hem and tugged it up enough that he could stand between her legs. His pant trousers rubbed against the inside of her knickers. For a brief moment he acknowledged the madness he was creating. Then he grabbed her hips and pulled the apex of her splayed legs against his manhood raging in his trousers. The overwhelming desire he felt was almost too much.
He closed his eyes and did his best to gain control of his senses. He opened them and glanced at Clara’s face, expecting shock or confusion but all he saw was desire. She let out a throaty sigh before reaching up and pulling his mouth back to hers. He pressed into her, wanting—no needing—to be as close to her as he could. What he really wanted was to be deep inside of her. The thought startled him back into reality.
Sam yanked himself away from her, taking a step back. This was wrong, he told himself. Clara sat on the edge of the table with her skirts hiked up to her knees, her lips swollen from their kisses, and her hair cascading down her back. Damn, she was a tempting sight for something that was so wrong. Her own desire seemed to dissipate, and she stood, shaking her skirts down. She opened her mouth to say something and then snapped it shut.
Sam ran his fingers through his hair, flustered.
~
Clara placed her hand on her chest, hoping to gain control of the raging emotions spilling from her normally collected self. She watched Sam pace back and forth. She tried to speak but had no idea what to say to him. He muttered to himself, and Clara wondered what he was thinking. Finally, he turned to her and ran his fingers through his hair again. He looked either sick or agitated; Clara wasn’t sure which.
“We can marry if you think it’s necessary,” he said, staring at her expectantly, waiting for her response.
Clara stared at him in shock. Was Sam Kincaide proposing to her? She studied him. He looked like he would rather do anything than marry her. Rage welled up in her. She didn’t want his awful proposal. This was his fault, talking about freedom and passion. She pursed her lips and straightened herself. He frowned at her.
“Don’t worry yourself. A little kiss from the infamous Sam Kincaide is not something I am worried about. Really a minor thing. You are the one who said I should have an adventure. Consider you my first.”
He scowled, startling Clara.
“Are we going to build this dissection?” she asked.
Sam looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. His blond hair fell over one eye and Clara hated to admit it, but he really was a striking man. “I just had you splayed across this table and now you want to build a dissection puzzle,” he hissed.
