“Spinoza?” he breathed.
“Know him, do you?” she cooed, sliding her body closer until it seemed nothing could keep them from colliding.
“But love towards a thing eternal and infinite… feeds the mind wholly with joy, and is itself unmingled with any sadness,” Matthew quoted, as if to himself, thumbing the gilt title on the spine.
His heart felt heavy as it palpitated, but light at the same time, light and free.
“Love towards a thing eternal and infinite? That sounds rather daunting,” Lady Caplin said, her voice airy. “I’d much rather love things human and mortal. Far fewer expectations. Far more enjoyable.”
Had she ever loved before? His heart seized at the unspoken question. She acted as if not, but, well, the thought of it hurt him somehow. Matthew closed his eyes.Control yourself, man.She’s a bloody viscountess, not some swooning village girl.
“This is the kindest thing anyone has ever…” he finally said, his throat thick.
“You,” she interjected during his long pause, taking charge, “are a kind man. And though you may find me flip at times, believe me when I say that you, Doctor, are deserving of many a kindness.”
Her eyes softened, her expression guileless.
When she gazed upon him with those dark, earnest eyes, words utterly failed him. He felt entirely unlike he ever had before. As if he could ask her anything about himself—his character, his philosophy, his desires—and she would answer correctly. As if she knew him. Saw inside him. Respected not only the man he was, but the man he strove to be.
Nothing could prevent the collision of their astral bodies, high above the earth, beyond myriad stars and books and treatises and volumes of great truth and immense feeling.
She would have him; it was on him to allow her. If only he’d submit to his own desire. If only he could survive the aftermath,and all of its daunting emotions. But he was strong. He knew he was.
He’d had to be, spending all these years alone.
Matthew’s heart raced, his body like a compressed spring.
Slowly he lowered his head, erasing the distance between them. Her lashes lowered in turn.
And he kissed her.
Chapter Fourteen
Cressida thought herself experienced.A widow well-versed in the arts of seduction, the act of surreptitiously carrying on with a gentleman.
Fool she’d been.
He’d kissed her with such ferocity, it scattered her thoughts and set her hands aflutter, fingers fidgeting in the air, unmoored and overeager. It was only once she melted into him, and slowed his lips with hers, that they finally came to rest upon his shoulders. And then he pressed forth, one thick arm snaked around her waist, pulling her closer, the crinkling of her silk tea-gown deafening against the silence. She dug her fingers into his shoulders. Yes, he was as deliciously built as she’d dreamed; all solid muscle wrapped around his massive frame.
He tasted wonderful.
It had been so long since she’d been handled like this, with the urgent need and careful consideration of a lover. Months.
His kisses slowed, his lips tasting hers, no longer devouring. His breathing was heavy, and Cressida felt the foolish impulse toreach for his collar and tear it apart with her hands, neckcloth and stick pin be damned.
Oh, but how she’d yearned for this, and how she’d earned it, enduring the hideous attentions of her repellent husband for all those years. Now she could be free to find real pleasure such as this.
She’d always been careful about these sorts of things, having never given in to desire with a man in her own home. But this time, she very much wanted this tall, strapping specimen to have his way with her, up against the library wall, with her legs wrapped about his middle. Of course, she would not allow it, no matter how her body tightened, how she craved it. Kissing was fine, but any rutting ought to be carefully arranged for off the premises.Thatwas how one evaded gossip and scornful looks.
The doctor’s hand slid up her back, to the nape of her neck, caressing her as he drew out one more long kiss. But then he pulled away and rested his forehead against hers, panting.No, she wanted to cry. Why had he stopped? She dared not open her eyes, afraid it might end as quickly as it had begun.
“Please,” she whispered, her fingers working their way down his lapels, along the placket of his shirt. His chest rose and fell under her hands. How desirous she was of laying her palm against him there, to feel the heat of his skin. For although her body had warmed, it was not her own heat she sought. It was his, against her, under her, encircling her. “Is it not nice, this?”
“You…” he choked out.
She opened her eyes. His face, inches from hers, was hard. His brows were drawn, his square jaw set. In agony? In desperation?
“You can’t mean it,” he finally finished, voice rasping, eyes intent upon hers. “You jest, you… you play with me. Surely not… not even if…”
