He met it—carefully; he didn’t want to startle her into drawing back.
Ellen wasn’t thinking; it was such a strange sensation, to know her wits were whirling, disconnected, and not to care.
For her, this was a first and, therefore, an experience to savor. The first kiss she’d ever experienced that was neither a demand nor a passive brush of lips.
This was something else.
Something she could enjoy, something she could participate in and delight in—a simple pleasure.
She’d never realized a kiss could be so…mentally consuming.
His lips were warm, resilient, and giving, yet even as she pressed her lips to them, molding hers to the sculpted curves, she sensed the strength behind his kiss—the leashed power.
Yet the glide of his tongue over hers was neither aggressive nor possessive but tantalizing, a subtle beckoning toward deeper intimacies, luring her into a tactile game.
A sophisticated seduction.
From him, she would have expected no less.
And regardless of the time and place, regardless of their precarious position, she wanted more, would have sued for more…but then she sensed him drawing back from the exchange.
Suddenly unsure, she pulled back, too.
Their lips parted, and he raised his head. She blinked up at him. The moonlight had strengthened, but his dark eyes remained nothing more than shadowed pools in his pale face.
But she saw his jaw firm, his lips tighten, then he said, “I didn’t have a choice.”
The words sank in, and her wits wrenched back into place. No choice?
Presumably, he meant that as his excuse for kissing her—because, of course, he’d needed an excuse…
The prick of hurt was unexpected. “Yes, of course,” she all but snapped.
He stepped back, and she looked down and, entirely unnecessarily, shook out her skirt. She straightened and turned toward the steps. “I suggest we leave before those three idiots mention the kissing couple on the terrace and others come to look.”
He nodded curtly and waved her on. She hurried down the steps, wishing she could put real distance between them; her unruly senses were still responding to him, all but reaching for him, craving his nearness despite her building temper.
Naturally, he fell into step beside her as she slipped through the shadows bordering the lawn and struck deeper into the surrounding shrubbery.
“I presume you rode over. Where did you leave your horse?”
She didn’t trust herself to speak; she gestured ahead, toward the Bigfield House boundary.
She was, she decided, furious—with the situation and how it had played out, with him, and even more with herself. She’d had no business responding to that kiss as she had. She had no excuse; she should simply have endured it…as she would have had it been any other gentleman kissing her in such circumstances.
But no, she’d enjoyed it, and where was that leading her?
He might not have said he was sorry for kissing her, but his words had made it plain that he’d only kissed her to conceal their true purpose in being on the terrace. Perfectly understandable—so why was she reacting as if his words constituted the greatest insult she’d ever received?
Because you enjoyed it, you liked it, and you would kiss him again in a heartbeat.
She considered that lowering truth, then mentally humphed and stuffed it to the back of her mind.
He accompanied her to where she’d left Nelly, her piebald mare, tethered beneath a tree in the corner of one of Bigfield House’s westernmost fields, one planted with damson plum trees.
She had to grit her teeth and allow him to lift her to her side-saddle, another novel experience that left her nerves leaping.
As she drew in a tight breath and gathered the reins, he said, “I left my horse in the next field. Please wait while I fetch him, and we can ride back together.”
He hesitated, waiting, but she made no reply. Eventually, with a nod, he strode away.
Perched on Nelly’s back, she watched him cross the field, then climb over a stile and disappear.
A few minutes later, he came soaring over the hedge on the back of a powerful gray hunter.
She was a competent horsewoman, but she would never have attempted that hedge.
Without waiting for him to reach her, she tapped her heel to Nelly’s side and steered the mare along the path that followed the field’s western boundary, then turned onto the wider path that ran between the trees down the middle of the field.
Her nemesis brought his gray up to pace alongside. In silence, they rode under the light of the moon, all the way back to the Bigfield House stable yard.
By then, she’d reviewed the happenings of the past hour and remembered his apparent understanding of what was going on at Goffard Hall and his reluctantly whispered “later.”
Later, to her mind, was now.
She ignored the mounting block in the corner and drew rein on the cobbles before the stable door. A sleepy groom came to take Nelly’s reins; she had informed the stablemen that she was riding out and expected to return after a few hours at most.
As she’d hoped, Christopher felt obliged to dismount and come and lift her down. She steeled her senses against the moment, yet the sensation of being swung through the air as if she weighed next to nothing still stole her breath.
So annoying!
To gain a few seconds, she glanced at the groom, now leading Nelly into the stable, then with grim determination, she focused her wits, faced Christopher, and locked her gaze on his face. “I believe you have information to share regarding what’s happening at Goffard Hall.”
The look she leveled at him stated very clearly that she was not going to let him escape before he’d told her all.
His jaw tightened. “I’ll call around tomorrow—”
“No.” For a second, she let the steadfast refusal stand unsupported, then went on, “If there’s anything that threatens Robbie and therefore this household, I deserve to know of it. If it wasn’t for me, you would have missed what Tilly was doing. I deserve to be told why she was deliberately losing.”
She held his gaze tenaciously and refused to back down.
She looked so fierce, standing there in the moonlight, dogged and determined, her steely temper and adamantine will so very much at odds with her appearance.
It must be nice being the recipient of that degree of devotion. Christopher’s words of months ago echoed again in his head.
He looked at her and saw so much that he wanted.
He inclined his head. “Very well.” Faintly exasperated with his capitulation, he reminded himself that he—and Drake—couldn’t afford to have her asking anyone else. Or at this stage, even trying to rein in her brother. Explaining what she’d seen to Robert and having the news circulate through the fraternity of young male guests…that was an outcome he had to avoid.
Resigned, he glanced around. “Not in the house.” That would be stretching propriety until it snapped. He looked back at her. “Is there somewhere we can sit and talk in assured privacy?”
Her gaze grew distant for a second, then she refocused. “The rose garden. It’s a warm enough night, and there’s a bench at the far end.” She turned and led the way.
He fell in beside her. Propriety-wise, sitting together in the rose garden unchaperoned at this hour was only marginally better than being alone in a room inside, but in reality, who was to see them? He seriously doubted she’d told her aunt that she planned to go riding about the neighborhood at night.