“That is none of your concern.”
He studied her face, saw the flush deepen, saw the way her gaze flickered briefly away. Understanding dawned, and with it something unexpectedly gentle rose within him.
“You deserved better than my poorly crafted illusion of indifference,” he said softly.
He did not rush her. He did not seize the moment as he might once have done with some careless flirtation. He bent his head slowly, giving her every opportunity to turn away.
She did not.
His lips touched hers gently.
There was no practiced charm in it, no flourish meant to impress. Only warmth, and the triumphant smile of a man who, finally, after far too long, had taken action.
For a heartbeat she remained still, startled. Then her fingers tightened faintly in his coat, and she exhaled against him. That breath undid him.
He deepened the kiss only slightly, careful, reverent, aware that this was not conquest but confession. When he drew back, it was because he must, because if he lingered another second he might forget the world entirely.
Her eyes were wide and luminous, her surprise and something that might have been hope visible in their depths. “This changes nothing,” she said, though her voice trembled.
He could not help the faint curve of his mouth. “You have never been able to lie to me… It has changed everything. For both of us.”
Chapter
Nine
Eleanor sat rigidly at Adrian’s side in the phaeton as they drove back toward Harcourt House, and she could not seem to collect herself. The breeze that tugged at her bonnet ribbons ought to have cooled her, but she felt flushed to the bone. She kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, determined not to do something foolish—like touch her lips as if she were a girl just come out of the schoolroom. She had always prided herself on being sensible, on being steady. And yet she felt unsteady now in a way she could not easily name.
He had kissed her.
Adrian Grant—who had looked at her for years as though she were simply part of the scenery of his life—had kissed her with such careful tenderness that it left her more shaken than any boldness would have done. There had been no rakish triumph in him, no teasing flourish meant to make her feel ridiculous after. He had waited. He had been gentle. And he had drawn back first, as though he feared going too far.
His words came back to her then. It had changed everything. That was painfully true. Because now there was no going back.
It had been, she realized with a pang that made her chest tighten, the first time he had ever treated her as somethingprecious. The thought ought to have delighted her. Instead, it filled her with dread.
Because there was Lord Marklynne.Because there was an agreement—practical and reasonable, entered into in good faith. She had meant what she said to Marklynne. She had meant to give him a fair trial, to see if they might suit. She had done so not only for herself but for Julien as well, because she could not ignore the truth that her brother’s stubborn bachelorhood was tied to her continued presence in his household. She could not pretend she did not feel like an obstacle sometimes, however kindly he might treat her and however much he might deny that she was at least partially responsible for it.
And now she had allowed Adrian to kiss her beneath the trees, as though nothing else mattered.
When the phaeton halted on the street just before their house, Eleanor lifted her gaze and felt her stomach drop.
Lord Marklynne stood upon the steps, hat in hand, his posture straight and composed. There was a faint crease between his brows, not suspicion but impatience. He watched as Adrian slowed the horses and brought them to a halt.
For a suspended instant, Eleanor remained seated beside Adrian, painfully aware of how the scene must look to anyone watching. There was nothing discreet about a private drive in a phaeton. Nothing that could be softened by the fiction of a coachman or the barrier of carriage walls. They had returned together, seated side by side, as plainly as any courting couple.
Adrian descended first, then turned to assist her down. His hands were steady, his touch brief, and yet as he set her upon the gravel she felt again the echo of his arm around her waist, the warmth of his mouth upon hers. She stepped away quickly, as if distance might restore her sense and immediately felt the lack. As if, by moving away from him, she had lost something precious.
“Miss Harcourt,” Lord Marklynne greeted her, bowing. “I had hoped to find you at home.”
“I was out for a drive,” she replied, and hated how thin her voice sounded and how very obvious her answer was. Any fool with eyes could have discerned that and she did not think Lord Marklynne a fool. But he was a proper gentleman and he understood the implications of just such an outing.
“I see that,” he said mildly. There was no accusation in it. Only observation. “I have been waiting some time.”
His gaze flicked toward Adrian—once, briefly—and returned to her. There was no flash of jealousy, no tightening of the jaw, no hint of possessiveness. If anything, his expression suggested only that he found waiting tiresome. He was mildly irritated, like being inconvenienced by livestock on the road when traveling in the country.
That unsettled her far more than jealousy would have. Jealousy was something that would have been perfectly normal under such circumstances. She had been out for a drive with another man, and he did not appear to care. Not in the way that mattered. But this annoyance at having to wait for her when he had not even been expected? That was something else altogether.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting, Lord Marklynne, though I wasn’t aware we had arranged to meet today,” she said, because it was the only thing she could say. It was a mild reproof, but she hoped it made her point very clear. If he wished her to receive him she must first know he intended to call.
