Page 42 of Managing the Major

In the faint light, a rosy blush suffused her cheeks. “Neither do I, Alastair. But where will this go? We’ve become such good friends, and…it’s only fair to say…I’m not at all sure about marriage.” The last words came out in a rush, and he froze, feeling the color drain from his face.

“Of course. I understand completely.”

Something in his voice must have alarmed her, because she looked up. “Alastair, what is it? Have I—I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s perfectly fine,” he cut her off, hollow with shock. Of course, she didn’t find him attractive—who would? With his scars, his limp, his useless left arm? And she hadn’t even seen the worst of it. What had he been thinking? She found him convenient for a flirtation or a meaningless kiss, but nothing more. In her company, he had briefly forgotten his infirmities, and that was a terrible mistake. Feeling ill, Alastair turned away, looking for an avenue of escape.

Octavia stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “What have I done—or said?”

“Let me leave, Octavia,” he begged.

“No.” She refused to move, concerned and fast becoming angry. “You will tell me what’s wrong. Were you thinking we would have an affair?”

“Of course not,” he ground out. “Just let it be, Octavia.”

But she wouldn’t. “I don’t know what I meant to say—you confuse me—you make me feel things I don’t want to feel. Alastair, I’m five and twenty, dreadfully independent; not a proper wife for anyone. At sixteen, I told my family I didn’t want marriage, but to live independently, and you’ve made me doubt my decision. I expected a flirtation and—”

“You don’t have to say anything further. I realize I’m unfit for marriage. I’m damaged in every way. Why on earth would you want more than a dalliance—if even that?”

“What? This has nothing to do with your injuries.” His face must have registered disbelief because she stamped her foot in fury. Freya danced around them, barking excitedly.

“How could you think such a thing? Did I seem concerned about them when I kissed you last night…when I practically threw myself at you?”

“You were carried away by the moment, as was I. We can still do business together if that’s what you wish. Please, let me just leave.”

She balled up her small fist and punched his arm fiercely. “Listen to me! I have feelings for you, Alastair; I just didn’t know what to do with them. Don’t you dare throw your temporary afflictions in my face.”

He stared down at her, a sliver of hope cutting through the rawness and pain. There was fiery indignation in her eyes—perhaps some hurt, but no pretense, no deception.

“Octavia…”

She reached up and placed her arms around his neck, pulling his head down to hers and kissed him thoroughly. He froze, despite the immediate rush of lust that suffused his body.

Clutching the lapels of his coat, she shook him gently. “Don’t you want to kiss me?”

“Oh, God, Octavia, are you sure?”

“I’ve thrown any modesty to the winds, haven’t I?” she asked, sounding exasperated.

Gasping her name unsteadily, Alastair crushed her against his chest with his good arm. With a sigh, her head fell back, and her lips parted. Just that stirred him to arousal. He barely noticed when his left hand moved to her hip, and couldn’t stop to consider the implications, because he was pillaging her lips like a madman.

“Alastair,” she gasped after her breasts were like a brand pressing into his body and kiss after kiss hadn’t satiated him. “Please…wait.”

Instantly, he raised his head. Had he gone too far, kissing the daughter of an earl in a stable? And he hadn’t just kissed her, but devoured her lips like it was the end of the world.

She disentangled herself and clutched the lapels of his coat fiercely, her bosom rising and falling rapidly beneath the thin silk of her bodice. But instead of running away, she shook his jacket.

“Take this off…I want to touch you.”

“You don’t have to prove anything, Octavia,” he rasped.

“Don’t be an idiot. I will rip it if I have to.”

Seeing the determined light in her eyes, he believed she would. He pulled the coat halfway off with his right hand, and she helped with the rest.

“Unbutton your waistcoat, Alastair.”

His aching arousal rose to full attention, straining against the fall of his trousers.