‘I am not sure Mrs Perowne is at home, my lord.’ Cris stepped forward, the man gave way before him and he found himself in the hallway.
‘No? Perhaps you would check. If she is not, then I will wait.’
The man looked as though he would protest. Cris dropped his card on to the silver salver on the side table, raised one eyebrow and waited.
‘Perhaps if your lordship would care to take a seat in here, I will make enquiries.’
Cris settled himself in the small salon and summoned up some patience. He had hardly crossed one booted leg over the other when the door burst open.
‘What are you doing here?’
He stood up, taking his time about it, admiring the vision of fashionable womanhood who had swirled to a halt in front of him. ‘I could ask the same of you.’
‘I am visiting a relative of Aunt Isobel’s, doing some shopping and consulting the picture dealer. Why have you called?’
‘Gabriel told me you were in London. I was concerned about you.’
‘Concerned that I might be pursuing you?’
‘No. Concerned for your safety. You are looking very fine.’
She did not sit, but swept over to take a stand in front of the fireplace, giving him an admirable view of pale primrose skirts and upswept hair that exposed the temptingly soft skin at the nape of her neck. ‘Thank you. I can look respectable if I wish, you see.’
‘I was going to say, I preferred you as I remember you.’
‘Why?’
He was only a stride away, too close to give himself the opportunity for second thoughts. She was in his arms before he was aware of moving, straining back against his hold, but not struggling, her eyes wide, dark, as she searched his face. ‘I remember you naked in the sea, in my arms. I remember you windblown and laughing on the cliffs, I remember your long legs, strong and lovely as the old riding habit blew back against them.’
‘Oh.’ It was a gasp and she wrenched out of his hold and retreated across the room to take refuge behind a low armchair. ‘Do you have to remind me?’
‘I don’t need reminding and I don’t believe you do either.’
‘You arrogant man!’
‘Why is it arrogant to praise your passion and your beauty?’ He stayed where he was, not wanting to provoke her into fleeing the room or ringing for a chaperone.
‘Stop it, you are flustering me.’
‘Good.’ She turned her head away, but not before he saw the colour flooding her cheeks. The movement gave him an excellent view of the vulnerable soft nape of her neck, the elegance of her figure in the well-made gown. Damn, but I want her…
‘Your friends have made it very clear to me that I should not be associating with you.’
‘No doubt Gabriel has, but I’m not so sure about Tess and Alex. I am not going to be barred from Court simply for knowing you, Tamsyn.’
‘No?’ She sounded wistful, but her back was still ramrod straight, her head still averted.
‘I missed you. Did you miss me?’ As he spoke he moved closer, skirted the chair.
‘Of course I did.’ Still she would not look at him. ‘But it will pass.’
He should go. She was right. It would pass, this feeling, whatever it was. And he could not, must not, court another woman with his mind distracted by Tamsyn Perowne. ‘I wish it would not, Tamsyn.’ And he touched her arm, curled his fingers over the smooth, warm flesh and saw her eyes widen as she started and turned at the touch.
Then she flung her arms around his neck and brought his head down so she could reach his lips and they were lost. He could have sworn he smelled the sea salt on her skin, in her hair, that he could hear the surf pounding on the beach and the gulls crying overhead. The taste of her, the feel of her in his arms, was familiar, yet different, right and yet unsettling. As he swept his tongue into her mouth, finding her again, claiming her, the salt scent yielded to rose water. As his hands spanned the familiar curve of her waist and hip, his fingers encountered fine lawn and the structure of stays.
Tamsyn broke the kiss, laid her head against his chest, held him. ‘You overwhelm me.’ But she did not let him go. ‘I did not want this.’
‘I did,’ he admitted, his mouth buried in her hair.