‘The house in the country and a pied-à-terre in London,’ he said vaguely. ‘Would you pass the butter?’
Tamsyn handed him the dish. ‘How lovely, to be able to go to London whenever you please.’
‘Shops?’ Cris enquired. He was teasing her, she could tell. The infuriating man did not so much as smile, but she was learning to watch for the slight dimple that appeared at the corner of his mouth when he was hiding amusement and the crinkle of laughter lines at his eyes.
‘Of course.’ She would not be drawn into a defence of shopping. ‘And bookshops and theatres and the sights—St James’s Palace and Carlton House and the parks.’
‘You enjoyed your season, then?’
‘I never had one. But as for the social round and the Marriage Mart, I am not sorry to have missed those.’
‘Your absence was society’s loss, Mrs Perowne. Think of all the bachelors deprived of the opportunity to court you, all the balls and assemblies ungraced by your presence.’
‘I am sure those bachelors survived heart-whole. After all, they had no idea what they were missing.’
Aunt Izzy laughed and turned to Rosie. ‘Do you remember at that assembly in Exeter, the evening before my eighteenth birthday?’ In moments they were lost in reminiscence over some private joke.
‘Yes, the poor souls have been languishing in ignorance,’ Cris said slowly, answering Tamsyn, ignoring the laughter beside him. He raised his glass of ale to his lips and sipped, his eyes on hers as he did so. ‘It is incredible that one can continue for years unaware of a gaping hole in one’s life.’
Surely he did not mean that he recognised her as something missing from his life? No, he must mean that she was existing here, cut off from the world, not realising what she was missing. That was more likely. How very…humiliating to be pitied. ‘And it is incredible how difficult it can be for some people to recognise when others are happy, just because they value different things,’ she retorted.
There was a sudden flare of emotion in Cris’s eyes. ‘I think we may be at cross-purposes, Tamsyn.’
‘Probably because we come from two very different worlds.’ So, he had not meant to insult her, but the exchange had served to remind her how distant from polite society she was, here at the edge of England, cut off by sea on one side and rough tracks on the other. She was country gentry, teetering on the verge of slipping into something else since her marriage. The small resources that she felt gave her everything she needed were pitiful against the wealth that Cris Defoe was obviously used to with his beautiful boots and elegant coats, his valet and his London home. She must seem pathetically provincial and unsophisticated.
And in danger of slipping into self-pity and unjustified feelings of inferiority. I’d like to see him striking a bargain in a cattle auction or setting up a village school or teaching himself French from b
ooks ordered from an Exeter bookshop. I would like to see one of the elegant ladies of his acquaintance running a farm and a fishery.
They finished the meal in polite, prickly silence with each other, letting the two older women take the burden of conversation. How complicated men are, Tamsyn thought as she dropped her napkin on the table and nodded her thanks as Cris pulled back her chair for her when, finally, Aunt Izzy stopped chattering and noticed that they had all long since finished eating.
He went to offer his arm to Rosie and Tamsyn followed them out. ‘That is a good walk with wonderful views that you took this morning,’ Rosie was saying as he led her to the drawing room. ‘It must be five or six years since I could manage it. I should not repine, this is a lovely house and I have an ever-changing view of the sea from the garden, but I confess that I miss being able to stride along the clifftops, see the expanse of the ocean and Lundy Island in the distance with the ships sailing by.’
If they could spare the money she would have the track up to the village made into a proper lane, with a surface levelled and graded by Mr McAdam’s new method, but it would cost more than they could spare and Aunt Rosie would no doubt protest at the idea of spending so much on something intended for her pleasure alone.
‘A penny for your thoughts?’ Cris had stopped beside her at the foot of the stairs and was regarding her with a quizzical smile. Tamsyn realised she must have been standing there, staring blankly at the front door.
‘I was speculating on road building,’ she admitted. ‘An expensive investment.’
‘You, Mrs Perowne, are a constant source of surprise to me,’ he murmured. ‘You will allow me to stay for a few more days, despite my pretence of feebleness being exposed?’
‘I suppose so.’ Her dark mood lifted as rapidly as it had descended. ‘I can hardly cut short your seaside holiday, now can I?’
‘Holiday?’ Cris’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘It was hardly that.’ He turned to climb the stairs.
‘What was it, then?’ She reached out and touched his hand as it gripped the carved ball on top of the newel post.
For a moment she thought he would not answer. Then he twisted his hand to catch hers within it and lifted them, joined, to his lips. ‘A journey from reality, from the loss of a dream, from the acceptance of what is inevitable,’ he murmured against her fingers. ‘Perhaps that is the definition of a holiday.’ His breath was warm, the touch of his lips no more than the brush of a feather. His fingertips were against the pulse of her wrist and he must have felt the thunder of the blood, the surging response, the desire.
It was madness, a dangerous madness if it could be so powerful when ignited by such a light touch, such a gentle caress. I want him and he would not say no if I came to his bed. But how did one carry on an affaire, however brief, under the same small roof as two doting and observant aunts? And how could she risk it—her reputation…my heart…for a few moments of pleasure with a man who would be gone within days?
Behind her, from the window embrasure out of sight of where they stood in the hallway, she could hear her aunts discussing their latest order to be sent to the circulating library in Barnstaple. Innocent, safe pleasures. This was not innocent and not safe and suddenly she had no desire for either. Tamsyn reached up and slid her fingers into Cris’s hair, just above his nape, pulled down his head and lifted her face to his. One kiss, surely she could risk that?
Chapter Eight
His kiss was not tentative, nor respectful. Certainly it took no account of where they were. Cris turned from the stair, took her in his arms and swept her back against the front door, the length of his body pressed against hers, the thrust of his arousal blatant, thrilling. Tamsyn twisted and got her hands free so she could lock them around his head, the shape of his skull imprinted on her palms, the heavy silk of his hair caressing across her fingers.
Her mouth was open to him, his tongue forceful, demanding that she open more, let him taste her, explore her. She pulled back so she could nip at his lower lip, making him growl, low and thrilling, the sound reverberating from his chest to her breast, before she drove her own tongue into his mouth, refusing to allow him mastery. If this was to be nothing else, there would be equal desire, equal responsibility.