Suddenly, his hand grabbed her arm and whipped her around. He was on his feet. He’d moved with astonishing speed. Before she realized what was happening, his lips came down upon hers.
His lips.
On hers.
Gemma was so shocked, she let out a gasp . . . that evolved into a sigh.
Heedless of his damp body, she leaned into him. His arms came around her, gathering her close. Their lips fit perfectly. Her hips met his. Her breasts pressed against his chest. And she found herself greedily wanting more, yearning to be close to him.
This was how she’d imagined a kiss should be. Her husband’s kisses had been slobbery and port soaked, and a test of her endurance.
Mr. Thurlowe’s kiss set her heart pounding madly. He tasted sweeter than honey. She wanted to bury her fingers in his hair—and a memory came back to her.
Years ago she’d asked her gran why, if she missed her daughter so much, she had let her go away with a man to Manchester. And her gran had said, “I had to let her go. When she kissed him, she told me she saw stars.”
Gemma had forgotten the story, and yet here it was—she was seeing stars. Bright, beautiful, exploding ones. She could kiss Ned Thurlowe all day, all night, all—
Abruptly, he broke the kiss. He stepped back. Gemma wasn’t ready to let go. She started to follow. He held her at arm’s length.
Cold air brought her to her senses. They had been kissing out in the open. If anyone had seen them, if the matrons caught wind of this, or worse, Miss Taylor . . .
The expression in his eyes appeared just as confused as she felt. He spoke first. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
She didn’t trust herself to speak.
Then he added, “I have no regrets.”
Neither did she. Stars. She’d seen stars—
She found her voice. “We can’t do that again.”
“It wouldn’t be wise.”
“No.”
He dropped his arms and looked to the pond, turning from her. “Take Hippocrates. I’ll help you up. He knows the way to the village. When you reach The Garland, throw the reins over his head. He’ll go home on his own.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I need to stay here a bit.”
Gemma didn’t move, her hands at her sides, her palms against her skirts. “I think perhaps we should talk—”
“I think we shouldn’t,” he answered, cutting her off. He turned completely from her now. “There is nothing to say. I should not have done that. I was out of bounds. This is not like me.”
It was not like her, either . . . and yet, Gemma knew she’d not forget that kiss. Ever.
She drew a steadying breath, released it. “You have nothing to worry about from me. Clarissa is a friend. I would never betray that friendship.”
“I know. The fault is mine alone.”
That was not true and they both knew it.
He broke the silence between them. “Let me help you mount.” He didn’t meet her eye as he passed her. Almost woodenly, she fell into step behind him.
He picked her up and put her in the saddle, his touch gentle—protecting her. Caring for her.
“There is something I don’t understand,” she said, picking up the reins.
He was adjusting the stirrup. He looked up at her.
“You don’t truly have any feelings for Clarissa, do you?”
He stiffened. Didn’t answer. Instead, he walked around the horse to lift the other stirrup so it wouldn’t bump the horse as she rode sidesaddle. Finally, “I admire her.”
She had no doubt that was true. Everyone in the village admired Clarissa. “Why did you offer for her?”
The corners of his mouth tightened.
“I understand,” she said. “We should keep a distance from each other.”
He nodded in agreement, his expression pensive.
“I don’t want this, either,” she told him. “It was not my intent.”
“Understood.”
Except she did want him.
He stepped back. At last he looked at her. “I’ve never kissed her.” He made the statement as if it explained everything, and then added, “She is a good person.”
“And the matrons want her to stay in the village.”
His golden eyes darkened with concern. “I’ve always been an outsider until I came to Maidenshop. You know Miss Taylor’s story?”
“That she was found as a babe on the parsonage doorstep in a basket.”
He nodded. “Of course you have heard it. Everyone knows it. All her life she has been that one. I understand what she is up against because I was that one.” Then he said quietly, “I had no right to touch you.”
“Yes,” she agreed, a heavy sadness coming down upon her. “It was the moment,” she suggested. “Just a passing moment.”
A very good moment.
“Gemma—”
She held up a hand to cut him off. “Let’s not make it seem more than it is.” Her words seemed heavy in the world around them.
His expression falling into lines of gentlemanly politeness. “Of course.”
There. They were done.
She lifted the reins but then had one more thought. “You may hold your lecture at The Garland.”
His expression changed to gratitude. “Thank you, Gemma. Thank you.”
“There is one condition.”
He tensed, wary. “Yes?”
“You must invite the women. Men aren’t the only ones interested in the goings-on of the world or the cosmos. Besides, I’d pit my intelligence against one of the Dawson lads any day.”
That made him laugh.
And in that moment, when he was pleased, when he was trusting her . . . she realized she could fall in love with him.
The idea rose unbidden in her mind. She could fall in love with him.
But she mustn’t. She couldn’t.
If anyone learned that they’d kissed, that she’d liked that kiss, well, the matrons would protect Clarissa—whom Gemma considered a friend.
“I need to go back,” she said. Her voice sounded strained, a combination of both being around him and realizing she could never have him.
“Yes.” He didn’t sound happy himself. “This is it, right?”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. “If we care for Clarissa.”
He nodded, then stepped back. “Go, Hippocrates. Take her home.”
The horse gave himself a shake as if he’d been sleeping. He chewed the bit a second and then took a step toward the road, when the doctor suddenly put up a hand and stopped him.
Ned looked up at Gemma.
“Yes?” she prodded, not wanting to leave him. Not yet.
“I was wrong when I said fighting Winderton had made me feel more alive than I had for a long time. It was nothing compared to kissing you.”
On those words, he said, “On with you now. Home, Hippocrates.” The horse began moving.
Gemma turned in the saddle, watching Ned until the shelter trees hid him from her view, wishing she had his words written on paper, even though she knew she’d never forget them.
As she let Hippocrates take her toward Maidenshop, Gemma lifted a hand to her lips, tracing the line of her lower lip with her finger. They’d been changed. They seemed softer now . . . and not because of the kiss, but because he’d let her know she mattered to him.