Of course she did. Regret darkened his soul again.
She had been only seventeen—but he had been only twenty-two. A man, yes, but hardly more than a boy. He had still believed honor would prevail and love would conquer all.
He’d been a fool, but what else could he have been? He’d been so damn young.
He should have been like his brother, Luke. He should have persuaded Kate to run to Gretna Green on the border between England and Scotland with him. There they could have been married as the Scottish marriage laws were much more flexible than they were in England. Then he would have had twenty-three years of wedded bliss instead of years of solitude, of lonely nights reading by the fire—or, worse, slinking up inn stairs, taking his ease with women he didn’t love.
If he had taken Kate to Scotland, he’d have sons now…daughters…a family.
But no, he was the responsible brother, the thoughtful, cautious, sensible one—and look where the hell it had got him.
Of course daring had gotten Luke dead.
Should he pretend he’d come this way out of nostalgia—pass by, continue through the garden and back up the steps to the terrace, polite, gentlemanly, a pattern card of proper behavior?
No, damn it. He hadn’t come all the way to London to be proper. He’d come to misbehave—and he bloody well would do so now. With Kate. He’d woken up hard and aching more times than he cared to count, thanks to her.
He ducked under a low hanging branch to move deeper into the shadows. Kate followed without hesitation or even a whisper of protest.
He held her hand to guide her over the tree roots and down the thin path, a line worn in the grass by other couples. Was anyone else here? He paused, put his finger to Kate’s lips when she would have spoken, and listened. He heard snatches of distant music from the ballroom, laughter from the terrace, the rustle of a small animal scurrying through the bushes, but no sound of lovers stealing a kiss in the bower, thank God.
He moved around the high hedge to the small hidden pocket of privacy. Best take no chances. He guided Kate to stand so he blocked the opening in the hedge. If anyone stumbled in, they would see only his back—and hopefully take themselves off immediately.
He didn’t want anyone to see them. He didn’t want anyone to interrupt them. Hell, he didn’t want the party, the ton, the whole damn world to exist. He wanted life to be limited to this little patch of greenery, to him and Kate. No time—past or passing; no memories. Just now. Just here.
“We’re alone.” He barely breathed the words, half afraid anything louder than a whisper would break the spell.
“Yes.” She whispered, too. Her head was down; she was staring at his waistcoat.
Moonlight sifted through the tree branches, sliding over Kate’s shoulders, over the tops of her breasts, making her skin glow.
He closed his eyes briefly. She was so beautiful, she made his heart—and other organ—ache. He studied the delicate curve of her neck, the soft wisps of hair that had slipped free of their pins. He wanted to hold her close, to protect her from all life’s pain—and love every last inch of her perfect body.
He had never thought to stand here with her again. He’d never thought to stand anywhere with her again. When he’d got word she’d married Oxbury, something in him had died. Now it was stirring back to life.
“Kate.”
She finally looked up. The tip of her tongue slid out to moisten her lips.
He had to touch her, to feel her skin under his. He shed his gloves—he’d like to shed more than his gloves, ofcourse, but not in Alvord’s garden—and brushed his fingers over her lips. He felt her breath sigh out, and her eyelids closed. Her face tilted up, her mouth just slightly—but so invitingly—open.
Not yet. He wouldn’t kiss her yet. Soon though—very soon.
He traced the swell of her breasts—and watched them swell more as she inhaled. Her top teeth caught her bottom lip. Her hands came up to grip his arms—to steady herself, not to stop him.
He cupped her elegant neck, smoothing his thumbs over her jaw. A small, breathy moan escaped her. Her skin felt hot.
“I’ve missed you, Kate.”
“Ah.” Her eyes opened. They were slightly out of focus. “I-I’ve missed you, too.” She swallowed; he felt her throat move. “Terribly.”
He traced her mouth with his finger, pulling her lower lip gently down. “Shall I kiss you?”
“Yes. Please.”
He bent his head.
How much had she learned from her husband?
He pulled back slightly. No. He would not think of Oxbury. That was the past, and there was no past here. He had left the past behind when he’d slipped into this bower. Here there was only now, only Kate and Alex.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please, Alex.”
He touched his mouth to hers gently, as he had when he’d been so much younger. Her lips stayed quiet. He brushed over them, moved to her cheek, her forehead, her eyelids. Her skin was so soft.
The scent of lavender teased him, mixing with the rich scents of the garden just as it had before.
He wanted to thread his hands through her hair, but he couldn’t. He was still cautious. They had to go back to the ballroom. She could not look as if she’d been doing what they were doing.
He followed the line of her jaw with his lips. She tilted her head back to give him room to explore, and he took the invitation. He brushed aside a tendril of hair, kissed her throat from just below her ear to her collarbone and then down to the delicate mounds of her breasts. She gasped—and then made an odd little noise, a cross between a moan and a breathy pant. He moved back to the pulse in her throat. It fluttered beneath his lips.
He had dreamt for so long of just this—of having Kate back in Alvord’s garden, in his arms, kissing her. The dream always ended with her naked under him—that wasn’t an option now, of course, but there was one detail he could enact.
He touched his mouth to hers again, but this time he didn’t just brush her lips with his. This time he slid his tongue deep into her warm depths.
She stiffened briefly as though startled, and he paused. She wouldn’t push him away, would she?
No. She relaxed, letting her body rest against his. Her tongue touched his tentatively, as if she had no notion how to go on.
He cupped her jaw and proceeded to show her. She tasted of mint and lemon and wine. Sweet and tart. Perfect.
He was hard with need. He wanted to free her from the confines of her stays, strip her of her shift, explore her breasts, her belly, her thighs. He wanted more than his tongue deep in her moist warmth.
She was a widow. He was unwed. There was nothing—no one—keeping them from doing what they should have done years ago. They wouldn’t even need to fly to Gretna.
He withdrew, rested his cheek against her hair, tried to marshal his thoughts and his breath to ask her to marry him.
She found her composure first.
“Alex, I…” She paused.
“Kate—”
She put her finger on his lips, shaking her head slightly.
“No, I…” She paused again and seemed to gather herself. A smile wavered over her lips. “Come tonight, to Oxbury House.” Her voice was breathless, nervous. Her gaze dropped to consider his chin. “Will you?”
She couldn’t mean…? “You wish me to escort you and Lady Grace home from the ball?”
“No.” She jerked her head in a short, negative motion. “No, I wish you…I want you…to come…later.” She glanced up to meet his eyes briefly, and then addressed his chin again. “I wish you to come to my room.” She was whispering so low he could barely hear her, but her next words were crystal clear. “To my b-bed. I wish you to come to my bed.”
“What?!”
“Shh! Someone will hear you.” Kate bit her lip. Alex’s eyes had widened and his mouth had dropped open. He was shocked.
She was shocked herself. A hot wave of embarrassment flooded her. Had she actually just invited a g
entleman to her bed?
She had. She stepped away from him and lifted her chin. Alex was frowning at her now. She frowned back. He had better not judge her.
She was an experienced woman, not a debutante like Grace. If Grace had done such a thing, that would be shocking. Grace was a virgin, young, and fertile. She was none of those things.
Grace. She should have gone in search of Grace. She should not have come here with this jackanapes.
But she had wanted to come. She had so wanted to go back to that magical time when she was young and in love.
She was an idiot, a complete cabbage-head.
“To how many men have you extended this invitation, Lady Oxbury?”
Oh! She felt as if he had slapped her. How could he think such a thing?
Because he hardly knew her. They had spent only two months of the Season—a few social events—together twenty-three years ago. She had been a child then; she was a woman now. How could he know her?
“That is none of your concern, Mr. Wilton.”
“I am somewhat particular in my associations, Lady Oxbury.”
She should slap him. She should certainly disinvite him. She did not want an ass in her bed.
She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that, but the words wouldn’t come.
The ugly truth was she did want him, had wanted him every day since she’d kissed him in this garden that first Season. She had wished for him on her wedding night after Oxbury had done his duty and gone back to his own bed. She had dreamed of him in the dark—and sometimes at the breakfast table while watching Oxbury read the paper and chew his toast and kidneys. And much as she blushed to admit it, she had often imagined it was he, not Oxbury, above her in bed, working at getting an heir.
She had been fond of Oxbury and had tried to be a good wife to him. She had never taken a lover—but had she been completely faithful?
No, not really. Not in her heart.
Enough! Her husband was dead, had been dead this last year. No one would fault her if she took a lover now—well, no one besides Mr. Saintly Wilton here. She was curious, that was all. She finally had the opportunity to find out what it would have been like if it had been Alex instead of Oxbury in her bed.
She thought it would be good. She’d never before felt the sensations Alex had created in her just now. He’d done little more than kiss her—though she’d never before been kissed like that. Where had he learned to be so skilled? He had not been married.
“You are particular, are you, Mr. Wilton? I would venture to guess you have associated with more women since last we met than I have men.”
Did he blush? Well he might.
“That is a different matter entirely. I am a man.”
True, women were supposed to turn a blind eye to men’s peccadilloes. If he were her husband—she ignored the pang that thought provoked—she would look the other way. But he was not her husband, and he was taking her to task for the same sin he had doubtless committed too many times to count.
“And I am a widow, Mr. Wilton.” She looked away. She couldn’t bear to see his expression. “I believe I am free to behave as I see fit. However, if you are not interested in my invitation, we need say no more. Please, forget I ever mentioned the topic.”
She would not be embarrassed. He did not know how it felt to be so completely alone. She had no husband, no child—no home. She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. Well, there was no point in dwelling on things she had no power to change.
So, no, Mr. Wilton had no conception of her plight. He was a man. He was in complete control of his destiny. He could choose to marry or remain single. He was the master of his estate. He had not the slightest inkling what her life was like.
“I believe I should like to return to the ballroom now, if you please,” she said. “I have been remiss in my duties. I should see if Grace has returned.”
The cabbage-headed, cork-brained lobcock stood rooted to the spot, staring at her. Well, she could find her own way back to the ballroom if he did not wish to escort her or was incapable of the task.
“If you will excuse me then, Mr. Wilton? I’m sure you will understand when I tell you I would prefer any future encounters we may have be limited to a cordial nod. I believe we’ve exchanged all the words we need to for the duration of our separate stays in London.”
She was very proud of herself. She had got that speech out without crying or even suffering her voice to crack. She moved to step by Alex.
His hand shot out to clasp her arm.
“Lady Oxbury.” He paused. His face was in shadow; she couldn’t see his expression. “Kate. My pardon. I meant no insult.”
She snorted—she couldn’t help herself. Meant no insult? Did the man think she was a complete paperskull?
“No,” he said. “I was just…surprised.”
All right, she could understand that. She’d been surprised herself. She never would have guessed she’d have the temerity to say such a thing.
“Very well. I accept your apology. Now please be so kind as to escort me back to the ballroom.”
He looked away. The moonlight glanced along the side of his face—she could see his jaw clench. He made no move to leave nor did he release her.
What was he thinking? Surely he didn’t intend to keep her here until Grace came searching? How would she explain her presence in this secluded place? She must go inside now.
She opened her mouth to demand he release her when he turned back.
“Kate.” His voice was low and tight.
“Mr. Wilton—”
“Alex, Kate.”
He almost sounded as if he were in pain. “Alex, then.” She put her hand on his arm. “We should return to the ballroom.”
“I…may I…that is…” He took a deep breath and seemed to gather his composure. “If I may, I would like to take you up on your kind offer.”
“My offer?”
“Yes. I would like to…visit you. Tonight.” He was having a hard time getting the words out. “If I may.”
Her stomach roiled with nerves and excitement. This was her last chance to change her mind. She should be sensible. She should be cautious.
She should be daring. She had not followed her heart before and had regretted it for years. She would not make that mistake again.
“All right.” Now what did she tell him? He couldn’t very well knock on the front door—she wasn’t that bold yet. But there was a sturdy tree outside her window…“Give me half an hour—no, an hour—after I leave the ball. Throw some pebbles against my window—second floor on the northwest corner—and I’ll let you in. That is, if you can still climb a tree?”
He grinned then, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. “I believe I can persuade this old body to do that much.”
She frowned. What if he fell? He might do himself a permanent injury. And the scandal! Every last member of the ton would be sure to speculate on what Mr. Wilton was doing on the ground outside Lady Oxbury’s bedroom. “I’ll leave the servants’ door unlocked.”
“You don’t think I can manage the more romantic route?”
She smiled. The teasing note she’d missed was back in his voice. Perhaps this was going to be all right. It wouldn’t be love—at least not on his part—but it would be…all right. If nothing else, it would satisfy her curiosity. She could finally put her infatuation with him in the past where it belonged.
“I want you to be able to manage other things once you arrive.”
“Ha! Ye of little faith. I’ll be delighted to show you I have endless stamina.” He leaned forward and kissed her nose. “But I believe I will make use of the servants’ entrance. No point in wasting energy I can apply to more enjoyable pursuits.”
Light and teasing—that was best. Let him think her a merry widow. She ran her hands up his chest to his neck. She would flirt, she would learn to seduce. “I can hardly wait.”
She was encouraged by his kiss to surmise that he was as impatient as she.
Lord Dawson was mad, completely and utterly mad, but he was a wonderful dancer. Grace spun through a turn, tethered by his large, strong hands. She wanted to put back her head and laugh. She’d never felt such joy in movement.
She hated to dance, and she hated to waltz most of all. She always felt so large and ungainly. Most of the time she was taller than her partner and sometimes…well, back at Standen she’d been forced to inform Mr. Fenton she would no longer stand up with him—ever. He was almost a head shorter than she and took dancing as an opportunity to get a very close look at her bodice.
But tonight, with Lord Dawson, dancing was an entirely different experience. She felt light and…graceful. Her smile widened—and then faltered.
John hated to dance—or at least he hated to dance with her. They plodded around the floor in time to the music, but…She sighed. Dancing with John was prosaic at best, but wasn’t that the way life was?
This—the dancing, the music, the brilliant colors, and beautiful dresses—this romance was merely a moment out of time. A glimmer of magic, impossible to hold. In the morning the elegant members of the haut ton, the flowers, the musicians would be gone and all that would be left would be a scuffed floor, a scattering of dead leaves, and a few wilted flower petals.
But that was the morning. Tonight she would revel in the magic; when it was time, at the end of the Season, she would go home to her dull, commonplace life, to Papa and to John.
“Enjoying the music, my dear?”
She would even pretend for the moment that having handsome men call her “dear” was normal. “Yes, I am.”
His mouth turned up in a half smile—and her stomach did that odd little flutter again.
It was not fair he was so sinfully handsome. That strong, square chin with its little cleft was completely captivating. And that dimple! Dimples should definitely be outlawed in a face as attractive as Baron Dawson’s. He had sun streaks in his slightly shaggy, dark blond hair, and his deep blue eyes glinted with humor—and something else…something hot and intense.
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