Page 37 of A Wallflower to Win the Viscount

‘It should not be stolen from you,’ he added, his mouth twisted as if the words tasted sour in his mouth. ‘I’ll leave now before I do something we will both regret.’

No.

Primrose shook her head. The only thing she regretted was that she was no longer in his arms, that his lips were no longer on hers.

He kissed her hand as some sort of carefully restrained consolation prize, then turned and walked out the door.

She remained rooted to the spot, staring at the door, as if reeling in the aftermath of a whirlwind.

Nothing about what had just happened made any sense. He had kissed her. She had kissed him back. She wanted him. He had wanted her too. The evidence of that was undeniable. She might be inexperienced in such things, but she was sure her actions had made it clear how much she desired him. Hadn’t she even told him so in words? Now he had gone, all because she was innocent, and he thought she should remain that way.

It was beyond frustrating. He’d awakened all these desires and emotions inside her and then walked away, leaving her with lingering sensations she had no idea what she was supposed to do with.

‘How dare he?’ she said aloud to the empty room, as frustration turned into barely contained rage. How dare he give her a taste of such intoxicating passion and then take it away and tell her such things were not for her because she was too innocent?

It was unfair and illogical. Yes, she was a virgin, but if he hadn’t stopped then she would no longer be a virgin. The obstacle of her innocence would be gone, and all their problems would be solved.

She released a loud sigh and slowly shook her head. It seemed there was only one thing she could do. Somehow, she was going to have to convince Lucian she was neither sweet nor precious and that he needed to forget she was an innocent and surrender to what they both obviously wanted so much.

Chapter Thirteen

Lucian stormed down the path towards his father’s house, fury at himself churning inside. How could he have done that? How could he have given into lustful desires and destroyed everything?

For one fleeting moment he had been free of the crushing burden of guilt he’d been carrying since the day his father had given him that man-to-man talk. Primrose had shown him a way out of his prison, and how had he repaid her? He had behaved exactly as his father would have done, shattering the illusive feeling of freedom. All because, just like his father, he was incapable of resisting the temptation of a beautiful, innocent woman.

He was beyond despicable.

He pushed open the front door and marched inside, and the full horror of what he’d almost done hit him like a fist in the gut. He was living in his father’s house. That alone should have been enough to stop him. Instead, it hadn’t taken him long to become exactly like the previous Viscount Westhaven.

Impotent fury still coursing through him, he strode down the hallway, into the drawing room, paced across the room until he reached the French doors, then turned and walked back to the door. He came to a halt, turned again, and continued pacing, failing to walk off the unspent energy.

What was he doing in this despised house? This was the last place he wanted to be. He had to get away. Away from this house. Away from Primrose. Permanently. As soon as possible.

That was now obvious. He hated to admit it, but as long as he was living next door to her, she was no safer than she would have been if his predatory father had been in residence. He had just proven that.

He came to a halt once again in front of the French doors. Ironically, Primrose had given him the means of escape. He no longer had to wait until he found a buyer for the house, one that didn’t mind living next door to a farmyard.

He would do as she suggested and bequeath the house to a charity. She was right. Once the house had been disposed of in that manner, then he would truly be free, free of the townhouse and all its haunting memories, free to return to America and finally free of the guilt he felt about running away and not having stood up to his father.

More importantly it would also free him from the unwanted and dangerously overwhelming attraction he felt towards Primrose.

He strode back across the drawing room, self-disgust consuming him.

It was all but impossible to believe he had so easily given in to lust and kissed her. Just as he’d come tantalisingly close to emerging from under his father’s shadow, he had stumbled back into darkness through one reckless act.

Just like his father, he had seen an opportunity to take what he wanted and he had done exactly that, without thought of the possible consequences to Primrose.

The fact that she had returned his kiss in a manner that could never be described as unwilling or innocent was neither here nor there.

His pacing once again brought him back to the French doors and he stared out at the garden, seeing nothing.

Was it neither here nor there?

The way she had looked up at him, desire burning in her eyes, the way she had responded to his kisses, with such passion—could he be forgiven for losing himself? It was as if the moment their lips touched, something had been unleashed within her, a sensual nature she was determined to explore, and by God he had wanted to explore it with her.

The compulsion to take her, to make love to her was more intense than he’d ever felt before, and the way she’d responded to his kisses, his caresses, he knew it was what she’d desired as well.

If he hadn’t used every ounce of willpower he possessed to pull away from her, he would no doubt have got what he’d wanted so desperately. But he had pulled away. That had to mean he was deserving of some forgiveness. Didn’t it?