“You must forgive me, Miss Voss!”
Chapter 3
“Ihave been waiting here for ages, hoping you would pass by, and I could explain myself,” whispered Mr. Winwood. “You must know that I would never have approached Miss Ashbrook had I known you would be there.”
With a heaving sigh, Mr. Winwood’s shoulders fell, though he did not loosen his hold on her. “I wish… You know I cannot… Were things different…”
His hand raised to her cheek, his fingers sending a shiver through her as they caressed her skin.
“Truly?” she asked, the question slipping from her lips, pulled from the deepest recesses of her heart. But Phoebe waved it away with a shake of her head. “I understand. We both must have an income to live and will do what we must to secure it.”
“I am sorry for it. ‘If only’ are two words that will haunt me for the rest of my life.” His voice faltered, his words drifting into oblivion as his eyes held hers; those dark depths, usually bright with mischief and a laugh, drew her in, and their warmth enveloped her far more effectively than the light pouring from the heavens. Mr. Winwood’s touch stilled, and his lips moved as though to speak, though no words emerged.
Standing so close, Phoebe felt every rise and fall of his breath, and she found it difficult to manage her own. Encircled in his arms, his strength and scent filled her.
“Miss Voss,” he whispered, his eyes falling to her lips. “Phoebe…”
And before she knew what he was doing, his lips claimed hers. The world tilted, her senses lagging behind the suddenness of it, and Phoebe stood rigid in his grasp, her mind desperate to comprehend what her body had already registered. Hearing him speak her given name was a shock in and of its own right, and her mind struggled to grasp this additional surprise.
Of course, her insides fluttered at Mr. Winwood’s touch, but the feel of his lips on hers was more an oddity than a revelation. It was bewildering—too close, too swift—his mouth warm against hers, and her hands remained at her sides, fingers curled uselessly, as though she had forgotten how they were meant to move.
Then the realization truly settled into her thoughts—Mr. Winwood was kissing her!
Jerking back, Phoebe stared at the man.
“I apologize,” he whispered, his breath heaving. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“But we cannot,” she said, pushing against his chest, though his hold didn’t loosen. “There is no future for us. We are only torturing ourselves.”
Mr. Winwood’s mouth twisted up with a crooked grin. “If this is torture, I welcome it.”
Not giving her time to reconsider, the gentleman pressed his lips to hers once more, and for the briefest instant, Phoebe remained caught between impulse and sense, the familiar arguments lining up even as the warmth of him pressed close and insistent.
Then something in her loosened: the future was already spoken for, but this moment was hers. And she would make the most of it.
Phoebe lifted her hands at last, fingers curling into his hair and anchoring herself as she yielded to the kiss. Though a tremor in her heart left her wondering if she was doing it properly, Phoebe refused to allow herself to think about what was to come. There was only the here and now.
This was just a moment of bliss, and Phoebe allowed herself the small, defiant pleasure of the stolen breath, the intimacy, and the knowledge that for this heartbeat, she was wanted. Chosen. Desired. If she had to surrender to the realities of life, then Phoebe would claim this kiss to warm herself during the cold days to come.
Sinking into his embrace, Phoebe allowed the world around her to fade to nothing. It mattered not one jot that they stood in another’s garden or that others were just out of hearing; all Phoebe knew was the feel of his lips and the heady heat that filled her as Mr. Winwood pressed closer, his hand drifting up her ribs—
“Mr. Winwood!” Phoebe gasped, pushing at his chest as she jerked away. “That is enough.”
That face, which was meant for smiling and laughter, crumpled, and Mr. Winwood straightened, clearing his throat. “I got carried away in the moment, Miss Voss. I find it impossible to keep myself in check when you are near.”
Phoebe’s breath hitched at that, her brows twisting as she considered the gentleman, and despite seeing his every move, she wasn’t certain how he encircled her in his arms once more.
“If only my father had a fortune,” he whispered, his breath tickling her cheek.
“If only my father hadn’t squandered his,” she replied, her weak chuckle more bitter than wry.
Mr. Winwood’s arms enfolded her once more. “If only…”
His hands rubbed along her back, his thumb brushing slow patterns that did more to reassure than rush, and Phoebe leaned into it, her body answering before her thoughts could marshal a defense.
“If only we could be together,” he murmured in her ear, his velvety tone wrapping around her like a thick blanket on a winter’s eve. “I spent years looking for a woman like you, Phoebe.”
The words slipped neatly into the hollow places she had guarded for months. Joy felt foreign now, like a word from another language she had once spoken fluently and forgotten through disuse. Phoebe’s breath hitched, her thoughts scattering as the warmth of him pressed close, his presence filling the narrow space until it seemed there was no room left for reason at all.
