She steeled herself to utter the necessary lie. “Precisely.”
His gaze grew even sharper. “Didn’t you like it? What we did on the daybed?”
Eyes narrowing, she studied him; his face gave little away, but his eyes seemed unusually stormy. She remembered he’d been strangely bothered by the, as he’d labeled it, “fast and furious” tenor of their joining. Surely he couldn’t be worried over his performance, couldn’t be feeling guilty? She might have
snorted, but she knew boys—men—well. “If I said I hadn’t enjoyed it, I’d be lying—as you’re perfectly well aware. However”—looking down, she tucked her gloves into the waistband of her riding skirt—“whether I enjoyed the interlude or not has nothing to do with my decision.”
Not a complete lie; it wasn’t her enjoyment per se but what she’d finally realized that enjoyment and the quality of it meant. Falling in love with Gervase Tregarth when she knew perfectly well he wasn’t in love with her was the very definition of unwise.
“I wanted to tell you—and have you agree”—she glanced at him but he was looking down, gaze fixed on a point in front of his boots; his jaw was set; he looked decidedly mulish—“that yesterday would be a solitary incident, never to be repeated. We—I—cannot afford to undermine my position in the district, not while I remain Harry’s surrogate.”
“No.” He lowered his arms, lifted his head.
She stared into hard hazel eyes. “What do you mean, no?”
Gervase drew in a breath, and recklessly embarked on the biggest gamble of his life. “I mean: No—that’s not why you’re running away.”
Her lips set; her eyes narrowed to slits. “I am not running away.”
“Yes, you are. You found yesterday exciting, fascinating, enthralling—and you’re frightened.”
“Frightened?” Eyes widening, she spread her hands. “Of what?”
“Of yourself. Of your own passionate nature. Of your own desires.” He held her gaze relentlessly and spoke clearly, dispassionately—with just a lick of contempt. And watched her spine stiffen, watched her temper spark.
With total deliberation, he uncrossed his legs, straightened away from the railing to face her—and poured oil on her fire. “You’re afraid of what you might learn if you continue to meet with me. You’re afraid of the woman you become in my arms, a woman whole, complete—all she could be.”
Her face blanked; she seemed shocked by the words that spilled from his lips, essentially without thought. Naturally. Although he was attributing the panic and fear to her, it was his own fears he was describing.
“You’re afraid of learning more, of what you might feel once you learn it all—experience it all. All that might be between us.”
With one hand he brushed back the hair haloing her face. She tensed, but allowed him to move nearer. Surprise and incipient anger warred in her eyes; had he been in control, his usual persuasive self, he would have capitalized on her temper, prodding it until she did as he wished, but having given voice to what was swirling inside him, having drawn this close to her, the focus of his roused and abraded emotions, he was no longer thinking clearly. Could only respond to the wariness in her eyes. “Don’t be afraid.” He leaned closer, brushed his lips to her temple. “There are times in life when one has to take a chance—make a leap of faith. When we simply have to…”
When he eased back, searching, she offered, “Step off the edge of a cliff?”
His lips twisted. “Nothing quite so fatal. More like setting sail and letting the winds take us where they will.”
In convincing her, he was convincing himself.
Her eyes remained on his, searching them, searching his face. He’d drawn close enough to trap her if he wished, but with an effort he kept his arms relaxed; she had to come to him willingly for him to win her.
Again her eyes narrowed. “You’re very good with words.”
He let his lips curve. “I’m even better with actions.” He held her gaze from a distance of mere inches. “Trust me.”
Moving slowly, he fastened his hands about her waist, let his gaze lower to her lips. “Just try it and see. There’s so much more you’ve yet to learn, yet to experience—and why not with me?”
A heartbeat passed, then two. He held his breath, not daring to look into her eyes in case she saw how important her answer was to him. How much she already meant to him.
Unexpectedly she sighed, long and resigned, then moved into his arms. “All right.” She tilted her face, lifted her lips. “But this is very definitely not wise.”
He accepted her offering with alacrity, covered her lips with his; the wave of relief that flooded him nearly brought him to his knees.
She was right; this wasn’t wise. It wasn’t even merely dangerous. It was unmitigated madness, on his part certainly—possibly on hers, too; Heaven knew he would never be an easy husband, but he couldn’t draw back, couldn’t deny this madness its due.
No more than he could deny the heat that rose between them, that welled and grew and flared into flame once she was in his arms. Once she was pressed against him, her lips beneath his, her mouth surrendered, his to plunder at will, once her body, sleek and supple, was locked against his, all he could think of was appeasing that heat, feeding the madness.
Letting it take him, rule him, drive him, conquer him.