But in the carriage today, she had forgotten her resolve.
She was restive. She yearned for him. She could feel the slick of her own wetness, the ache of her bud, the stiffening of her nipples. She did not mind that he had spent precipitously. She wanted the same for herself. With him.
But when she had told him he could call her Arabella because he had spent with her hand on him, he had drawn himself up and colored deeply again.
Why had she said that? And in that way? She might have said it coyly and it would have been seductive. Instead, she had been cutting. She had cast something up to him that was shameful to him. She had injured him. She had been cruel. She had not known she could be that. How awful lust was.
But he was exasperating. Did he want her or didn’t he?
“I would like nothing more than to have the privilege of calling ye by yer given name,” he said, “but I willnae. I will continue to call ye Miss Lovelock. I have not earnedArabella, yet.” He visibly gulped when he said her name. “My lack of control dinnae mean we are true intimates. And I dinnae have yer aversion to the romantic.”
Her resentment spilled over. “I am spoiled, Dr. Andrews, or have you not heard? There is no romance left for me.”
He spoke in a different voice then. A voice she had never heard from him. A strong and sure voice. An assertive and commanding voice that brooked no opposition. This must be how he spoke as a physician. How he might speak when he ordered a headstrong patient to stay in bed.
“Ye arenotspoiled or ruined or damaged or blemished or marred or any of the other idiotic euphemisms that are bandied about in regards to a woman’s virginity. Ye are perfectly ye, still.”
Her own hurt dissipated as he spoke. He was not rejecting her, just her headlong foolishness and her impatience.
And the desire that had been washing over her body was gone, replaced by something else. Some deeper want. One that had been with her ever since she could remember, even as a small child. Some want that could only be assuaged by her mother or her father or her sisters.
The want to be both understood and loved, together, at the same time.
He went on, “And ye are not the only party here. I am thirty-one. I have waited thirty-one years to have a woman in my arms. I want that woman to be ye and have wanted that for almost four years. But can I be blamed for wanting romance as well?” And then his tone also turned slightly bitter. “It would be the only thing that would warrant the wait. The possibility of love. Otherwise, I could have been with a lonely widow or a tuppenny whore long ago.”
The possibility of love.
She buttoned her coat. She turned and put her hands out toward him and there was a moment when she thought he would flinch away but he did not. She buttoned his coat and let her hand rest for a moment on his lapel—the lapel that she had clung to when he had first walked into her cottage in Dunburn. When she thought she could keep him with her by just holding on to his coat. Then, she let her hand drop and she moved to the seat opposite him and put on her gloves.
The possibility of love.
Yes, here he was. The not-stupid man.
She was the one who was ashamed now. He was a man who had cherished an ideal for a long time. But he was wise enough to have no care what others thought of his ideal.
He wanted her. He had shown that. He had said that. What was her hurry after all?
“You are quite right, Dr. Andrews. You deserve romance.”
“Ye do, too, Miss Lovelock.”
Her voice trembled and she hated herself for it. “I don’t deserve you, Dr. Andrews.”
“That is,” he took a deep breath, “the single most mistaken statement I have e’er heard.”
They sat in silence, looking at each other.
“You exaggerate, Dr. Andrews.”
“I dinnae, Miss Lovelock.” He was very serious.
“Open Sesame,” she whispered.
He smiled.
Her heart melted. Perhaps she had not made an irrevocable mess of everything.
And then the light inside the carriage changed. It grew dark.
