“My father’s second wife was one of our neighbors too,” she said, “the widow of his particular friend. I was and am happy for them, though I was eager enough to marry and move away after they wed. Dora had left, and our home just did not seem the same any longer. Since I came to live here, I have involved myself in community and church activities whenever I feel I can be useful. I read and I paint and I darn and embroider. I have a modest competence from my late husband on which to live. It is quite sufficient for my needs. Sophia—Lady Darleigh—is my closest friend, not because of her grand title but because ofwhoshe is. I have never been ambitious. I am not now. The idea that I might marry a viscount does not make my heart palpitate with delirious hope. I am perfectly happy with my life as it is.”
He was glad of that last sentence.
“I think y-you lie, Mrs. Keeping,” he said.
She looked cross.
“You asked,” she said, “and I have told you. There is very little to tell. But you do notknowme for all that. Facts tell only a small part of the whole story of who a person is.”
“You arenotp-perfectly happy,” he said. “No one is except m-maybe for brief moments. And you admitted once before that you are n-not fully contented. P-Perhaps there is marriage and motherhood in your f-future, you told me, and your voice was w-wistful when you said it. But you d-did not know who in this neighborhood was likely to offer.Iam offering.”
“Why?” She frowned at him. “You could have any woman you wanted. Any lady of rank and fortune. And beauty.”
“Youare beautiful,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” she surprised him by saying, and her chin came up and her cheeks warmed with color. “But not in any way that might attract a man like you, Lord Ponsonby.”
She was determined to see him as a libertine.
He smiled and regarded her lazily.
“Is there a c-correct answer to yourwhy?” he asked her. “If I give it, will I w-win the prize?”
She shook her head slowly. “I would be mad to marry you,” she said.
“Why?” Now it was his turn. “Is it over m-me you have been losing sleep?”
“I have not been—” she began, but he had set a hand behind her neck and moved purposefully toward her.
“Liar.”
He kissed her and then raised his head. She gazed back into his eyes and did not complete her interrupted sentence. He untied the ribbon bow beneath her chin and tossed her bonnet to the grass on top of her gloves.
And he kissed her again before unbuttoning his coat and then her cloak at the neck. He slid his hands into the warmth beneath it and drew her to him inside his coat.
Sometimes, he thought, there was something more erotic than naked flesh.
He reached his tongue into her mouth, held her head steady with one hand, and circled one of her breasts with the other. It was small, firm, uptilted above her stays. Not voluptuous. Just... perfect.
When one of her hands cupped his cheek, he withdrew a few inches. Her eyes were bright with tears.
“Do you w-want me to—” he began.
“No,” she said, her mouth slanting, open, over his.
She was on the grass then, on her back, and he was half over her, bracing himself above her with his elbows, his hands on her breasts, one of his legs nestled between hers, his mouth moving over her cheeks, her temples, her eyes, her ears, and back to her own. His erection was pressed to her hip.
He moved himself more fully over her, his hands moving down her sides and beneath her to cup her buttocks. He nestled and rocked against her between her thighs, the layers of their clothing separating them. He wanted nakedness then. He wanted to explore her heat with his hand, and he wanted to put himself there and press inside her. He wanted to claim her body for his own.
And he would be safe.
Strange thought—and it was not the first time it had popped into his head like an alien thing.
Safe.
Safe for whom?
And from what?
