She leaned against the bookshelf with one arm, rested her head in the crook and began to cry. She hadn’t expected that to happen, but she did. And then she couldn’t stop. Great heaving sobs wracked her entire body, a dam burst that she had likely been holding back for years. There was no moderation to be had in that moment, there was only pain and regret, fear and sadness.
She felt a hand on her arm, someone gently turning her and then strong arms encased her, tucking her against a firm, warm chest that smelled like sandalwood and mint and everything delicious. She glanced up to find it was Kirkwood. But of course it was Kirkwood. She’d known that, hadn’t she? Even without seeing his face.
She should have pulled away, but instead she buried her head into his shoulder and allowed the tears to continue to flow. He stroked her hair gently, not saying a word to urge her to stop this foolish display. He merely witnessed it, allowing her to express it without judgment.
She had no idea how long they stood like that, but her sobs began to subside after some time. She realized she was clenching her fingers against his back and stopped.
He drew in a deep breath and she found herself doing the same, feeling some of the shattering emotion dissipate a little when she did.
“Tell me,” he whispered at last.
She shook her head. She shouldn’t tell him. Not him of all people. But the words were coming now, as uncontrollable as the tears and the feelings she always held back with all her might.
“I’ll never have anything, will I?” she gasped out. “I realize what an empty, loveless life it will be. A passionless, so-very-proper,emptylife.”
Was that it? Was that what hurt so much? She’d always told herself, told Marianne, told anyone who asked, that she didn’t require those connections in her husband. That she knew her duty and that arranged marriages were often transactional and cool.
And yet there was some wicked, improper part of herself that wanted more.
Kirkwood made a rumble from deep in his chest and then he cupped her chin, turning her face up toward him. “There is so much more in life than this, Clarissa,” he said, his fingers splaying against her cheek gently. “You deserve so much more than this, don’t you understand that? So much more than a man like the marquess could ever provide.”
She blinked. His face was very close now. As close as it had been during the parlor games days before. When they’d kissed. Barely kissed. And like then, she realized she wished she could kiss him again. Not sweetly or briefly, but truly be kissed.
“Clarissa,” he said, and his voice was rougher. He was lowering his head toward her, she was lifting her chin toward him, like they were called to each other by some unseen force. Their lips met.
At first it was very similar to the kiss in the game. Soft, gentle, just a brushing of lips. But then he made a possessive sound from his chest and his fingers moved up from her cheek and into her hair, tilting her face as his mouth pressed a little harder. She gasped at the sensation and her lips parted against his. His tongue darted out, tracing theopening she’d created, setting off fireworks of sensation through her entire being that were unlike anything she’d ever known.
She clung to him harder, leaning into his solidness, his strength, letting him guide her away from safety and into something like a warm bath that she could sink away into and never come out.
He tasted her, still gentle but now so intimate, and she found herself meeting him with her tongue, matching his strokes, lifting against him as the kiss deepened because she wanted more. More and more until there was nothing but this.
He pulled her closer, her body molding to his, his breath short and hot between kisses, his hands gripping at her like he was fighting for control. Wasshestealing his control? His? That couldn’t be right. And the triumph that wicked idea left in her couldn’t be right either.
Somehow it didn’t feel wrong, though. There was only sensation, not judgment. Beautiful, tingling, heated sensation that crept its way through her entire body and made her feel weightless.
She lifted against him again, seeking more of this, but before she could receive it, before she could come to her own senses and back away, before he could sweep her into whatever came next, there was a gasp at the library door.
They tore apart from each other and both stared toward the noise, only to find Clarissa’s mother and father, along with their vicar, Mr. Reade, who had been in attendance at the garden party. All three were staring. Mr. Reade looked horrified and judgmental, but her parents, oh, that was a different story. Her mother was smiling, simply unable to cover her absolute delight in this humiliation and what it would cause. Her father at least had the decency to frown, even though his eyes danced.
Clarissa began to shake as she staggered backward, into the bookshelf, sending a few volumes clattering down onto the floor. She glanced at Kirkwood, who looked as shocked as she felt, and then her knees went out from under her and she slid toward the floor.
CHAPTER 8
Roderick caught Clarissa’s arm as she began to collapse and supported her as best he could when his own world was spinning.
“There now,” he murmured. “It’s all right. Breathe.”
She did so, but barely, and she shook her head at him, almost as if she could will what was happening away. But neither of them could. In what felt like half-time, Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart burst fully into the room together, arms flailing and voices barking at once.
“Sir, you have gone too far,” Mr. Lockhart shouted, even as Mrs. Lockhart reached for Clarissa and dragged her away roughly. Clarissa tripped over the edge of the carpet with the sudden, violent movement, but her mother didn’t stop.
“My poor child!” she said, but Roderick realized she wassmilingas she spoke. Smiling. His heart sank, his stomach turned. Was this a trap? He had always avoided those so deftly. But not today.
He almost feared looking at Clarissa, feared seeing that she had been involved if this was what he believed. But when he did, he saw her cheeks were bloodless, her eyes glassy and shocked. That reaction seemed real, that horror and fear. Certainly her pain while she wept had felt real.
And her kiss? Oh, that had felt very real. And far more powerful than he could have imagined after she’d spent the entire party sniping at him.
He shook that thought away and forced himself to pay attention to what was happening around him.
