“You are quite determined to do this, are you not?” she said.
He merely turned his head to grin at her again, and she huffed out another exasperated breath.
“I might have known,” she said, “that deep down you have not changed at all.”
He laughed. “Ah, Clarissa,” he said. “Nor have you.”
She lowered her parasol with a snap, and he took it from her. “We will do it,” she said. “And if I survive the ordeal, I will call you the monster and the idiot you are.”
“Take my hand,” he said.
They descended the first part of the slope very slowly as she felt out every foothold and clung to his hand as though her very life depended upon it. They paused when they came to the first rock, which was flat enough on top to give them firm footing. She looked ahead for perhaps the first time.
“Oh,” she said. “We have scarcely started. I think we should go back.”
“Look behind you,” he said.
She did so and let out one of her huffs. “Did we really come down all that way?” she asked.
“It would certainly be foolish to change our minds now,” he said.
“And it is not foolish to go on?”
“Well,” he said. “We could stay here. Perhaps for the rest of our lives. Or possibly someone will come looking for us after a week or so. I believe there is a little tea and water left in the flasks.”
“Oh,” she said. “You are enjoying this. Come along, then.”
The grass was thin on the next stage of the descent and they did some slipping and sliding on loose stones that had not been visible from above. But there was never any real danger. And the slope became far more gradual and grassy below the next big boulder, which was not as flat as the other one had been but nevertheless gave them a firm base upon which to stand and catch their breath.
“It is easy from here to the bottom,” he said. “You can walk it sedately, Clarissa, or you can take it at a bit of a run. I’ll show you. I’ll go down first and be there to catch you at the bottom.”
“You are not going to leave me?” she said, alarmed.
“No,” he said. “I’ll come back up if you need help. But you will not.”
It was a fairly gradual slope, though admittedly longer and steeper than it had looked. It was far easier to take it at a run than at a walking pace. He ran down most of it. Children could have a feast of delight rolling down here, he thought, and wondered if children ever had. The hills were a long way from the house.
He watched her begin a gingerly descent, holding up her skirt with one hand to show her still-trim ankles, her eyes on her feet andthe grass immediately ahead of them. But after a short distance the slope became too much for her and she had no choice but to fall or run for it. She ran, holding her skirts up with both hands now, and shrieking as she came. She reached the bottom just as she was about to topple over, but he caught her in his arms and swung her off her feet and around in a complete circle. They were both laughing helplessly.
“Matthew,” she said as he set her feet back on the ground. She tipped a flushed face to his. Her arms were wound tightly about his neck. “You reckless, utter idiot.”
“Guilty,” he said. “And aren’t you glad of it?”
He watched the laughter fade from her face even as he felt it drain from his own.
“Yes,” she whispered. “You idiot.”
And suddenly they were kissing with passionate intent as though they would fold themselves into each other if they could. A whole lifetime of yearning went into that kiss, it seemed to Matthew, and who could ever say which of them had initiated it? Perhaps it had been entirely mutual. It was very definitely a kiss. Their mouths were open, their tongues clashing and twining and exploring, their breath mingling. They were not going to be able to convince themselves afterward that it had been a mere pecking of lips, a mere extension of their exuberance and laughter.
“You idiot,” she murmured again when he softened the kiss and moved his lips almost away from hers. And she deepened the kiss for a few moments longer until full awareness returned to her, as it had already begun to do to him.
Awareness of what they were doing, he and Clarissa Ware, Dowager Countess of Stratton. Their first and only kiss at the age of almost fifty in her case, going on fifty-one in his. And asimpossible now as it had been when she was seventeen and he eighteen. More so, in fact. At least then he had been a gentleman and she a lady without all the trappings of title and aristocratic status. Now he was a carpenter and wood-carver by his own choice. His closest friends, the people with whom he most often associated, were fellow workmen and shopkeepers. And she was a dowager countess.
He raised his head, and she drew hers back at the same moment, though they did not immediately release each other. Her eyes were large and slightly dreamy as they gazed into his. Her cheeks were rosy from surely more than just the exertion of running downhill. Her lips were soft and moist and deep pink.
“When you stood against that tree,” he said. “After you had told me Stratton was coming to offer for you the following day and you were going to marry him. When I came to stand in front of you, I wanted desperately to kiss you then.”
“I know,” she said softly. “And I wanted desperately for you to do it.”
