Neither of them said anything for some time, leading to an uneasy silence. Abruptly he set down the book and bowed again. “Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace. Please don’t let me take up any more of your time.”
When he was gone, Clarissa rubbed her temples. It had been a strange encounter, to say the least, at once nerve-racking and deeply unsatisfying. But really, what had she expected?
That he would come up to her, cup her face, and kiss her.
She sighed. And that was why she didn’t think such thoughts outside her bedroom or in the light of day. That was why it was the one secret she had kept even from Miss Kirkland.
It would be quite a hopeless business with Mr. Kingston. But at least soon Miss Kirkland would be here. Clarissa crossed the solarium and picked up the book she had sent. The horticultural guide had been a bit of a joke, as Miss Kirkland was self-acknowledged to be an execrable gardener, unable to keep anything alive except the lavender hydrangea she had obtained from Clarissa.
But it had been inscribed in all sincerity. On the first page, in Miss Kirkland’s familiar hand: Some turn the soil and plant seedlings. We garden with words and nurture affinity.
And how. From a dozen hydrangea cuttings, they had grown a beautiful friendship.
And it was this friendship from which Clarissa would derive solace and pleasure when all her hopes about Mr. Kingston had proven to be made of mirages.
After presiding over tea, Clarissa set out for the still little-used east wing, to check on the room she had asked to be made up for Miss Kirkland. She had decided to place her friend far from the rest of the guests so that the latter could enjoy a semblance of peace and quiet—seclusion, even—in the midst of a lively house party.
Preoccupied, she didn’t realize until she was about to turn into the main upstairs passage of the east wing that someone was behind her.
Mr. Kingston.
Really, if he was not going to kiss her, he should not waste her time.
And then, of course, she was ashamed of her uncharitable thought. He did not know of the countless hours she had spent turning him into a shorthand for all the excitement and passion missing in her life. Besides, he was a gentleman, and a gentleman did not simply grab a lady and kiss her.
“You wouldn’t happen to be lost, would you, Mr. Kingston?” she said over her shoulder. “Your room is on the other side of the house.”
“No, Your Grace,” he answered, drawing even with her. “I know where I am.”
“But there is nothing of interest here, other than some of my stepson’s fossils.”
“I beg to differ,” he said, his voice low but firm.
Flustered, she stopped before the room she had assigned to Miss Kirkland. “Do please excuse me, Mr. Kingston. I need to inspect this room.”
He opened the door for her. But when she had walked through, he followed her inside and closed the door. Her heart careened. Did this mean he wanted to be alone with her after all?
And was this not altogether wrong? Had they spoken five sentences to each other in their entire acquaintance? How very arrogant and brazen of him to presume that she would welcome such—
He settled a hand at her nape. She shivered with the sensation of his bare skin on hers, zigzags of electricity that shot deep into her spine. The searing heat spread. He was now touching the underside of her jaw, the tender skin just beneath her ear, and—
She gasped aloud as he pressed his lips into the shell of her ear.
“Clarissa,” he murmured.
Was she dreaming? Was it likely, or even possible, for mirages to suddenly prove themselves true oases after all? Her lips moved, but no response emerged. His hands were on her arms, their warmth seeping through the fabric of her sleeves. Slowly, he turned her around. Then he cupped her face and kissed her.
She couldn’t tell whether his lips were soft as rose petals or rough as sandpaper. She couldn’t seem to feel anything but this fire that scorched any and all nerve endings, as if she had grazed the corona of the sun.
She moaned. Her hands plunged into his hair. She returned the kiss roughly—if he was made of flames then let her be a fire-eater. Lips, teeth, tongue, she wanted everything.
Vaguely she felt herself lifted. She didn’t care. As long as she could continue to kiss him, nothing else mattered. Even when her back touched the softness of a mattress, it didn’t matter. Of course he must carry her to bed; she couldn’t be expected to remain on her feet forever while she kissed him.
Now there came the warmth of his fingers at her throat—he was unbuttoning her bodice. Yes, she wanted this, his weight pressed upon her, the feel of it as solid and sinewy as she’d always imagined. More, if anything. And he smelled wonderful, of cedar and cypress, and—
All of a sudden it dawned on her what she was doing: allowing a virtual stranger to make love to her. She might have fantasized about him for years, but she did not know him. Not at all.
“Mr. Kingston, please, please stop.”
He grunted and kissed her again. “Clarissa—”