No, she would not. How could she ever hate such a man?
He nodded. “I will. In the cloakroom. I thought it was her at first, but then I thought it was you. The perfume.” He held her gaze. “It was the same. I thought you’d come to me…”
Rhoda nearly stopped breathing at the thought of what could have been. If she’d gone to him, if she’d discovered him in the closet instead of Emily.
“You touched her,” she reminded him. “And you didn’t know the difference.” She didn’t mean to sound accusatory, but she wondered. Did all women feel the same to a man? Couldsheidentifyhimby touch alone? Would she notice the strength of his jaw? The muscled cords of his neck?
He shook his head. “I wanted it to be you. I think perhaps I’d fooled myself into believing what I wanted.”
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. That thoughtful position she’d seen him in so many times. And now, here they sat. Alone, in a darkened church.
Perhaps Emily and Lord Carlisle would be happy together. Her eyes burned at the thought. She loved Emily. She wanted nothing more than for her to find contentment in marriage.
He glanced over his shoulder, a self-deprecating expression twisting his beautiful face.
Rhoda leaned forward slowly. As she did so, his throat worked, as though he had to swallow hard. Mere inches separated their lips. She wanted to kiss him. The truth was that she’d wanted to kiss him for a very long time.
Why had she ignored this?
She didn’t deserve him. He’d never be hers. But at that moment, she didn’t care. Lifting her hand, she trailed her fingertips along the line of his jaw.
He closed his eyes, and a tremor vibrated through him.
He’d declared that he wanted to court her, and she’d blurted out that she was to marry Blakely, ignoring the longing she’d seen in his eyes so many times.
She’d hurt him.
Unable to deny him now, unable to deny herself, she inched closer until her lips barely skimmed the corner of his mouth. “Justin,” she whispered.
Her heart nearly melted at such nearness. This man, he’d absorbed her pain since the day of Harold’s death. He’d absorbed the pain of others, too. For how long, she wondered? Had he done it all his life?
She adjusted herself to align their mouths better and then placed her hands on both sides of his face. Without thinking, her fingertips caressed the bristly texture of beard that had appeared since earlier that morning. His jaw, his neck. As she did so, the pulse fluttering in his throat quickened.
This man.
“Justin,” she whispered again. He opened his eyes and, even in the darkness, she wanted to drown in his blue depths. He held himself like a statue, not resisting nor responding.
Leaning forward, testing, she pressed her mouth against the tender skin of his lips. Her kiss was an apology, a need, a question. It would say all the words she’d kept inside.
“Justin,” she whispered again. “I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry.” She spoke her heartfelt apology against his mouth.
And then he grasped her wrists and groaned.
Desperate hands moved to her hair.
“My fault,” he whispered back.
Opening his mouth beneath hers, finally, his hunger unleashed. Lifting her onto his lap, his body cradled hers, effortlessly, all without breaking the kiss. His hands traveled from her cheek, to her chin, her neck, and shoulders. He held her as though she might evaporate any moment. So much tenderness she thought she’d melt. A whisper of a touch here. A sigh of a kiss, a murmur of affection. Surely, this was what if felt to be kissed by an angel.
Of course, he blamed himself for what happened tonight with Emily. Rhoda couldn’t allow it.
He cared for her.
She craved him. She ached for him. But…
She buried her face against his throat. “I can’t. I can’t allow you to think you know me. You don’t. It’s not just about St. John.” She squeezed her eyes shut, holding back the tears this time. She’d own up to what she did. He’d be glad to walk away from her after knowing.
She moved her lips, but no sound escaped.
