“Ohhh . . . Don’t . . . I’m not . . .” She shook her head, rejecting his words, though they pierced her very soul.
“Yes, you are.” He tilted her chin and, very gently, pressed his lips to hers.
She stilled. Cupping her face between his big, warm hands, he feathered tiny kisses over her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids, as if tasting her tears. She couldn’t move, could hardly breathe.
Her mind went blank. The warmth of his body soaked into her.
Brief, fleeting, tender touches. It was like nothing she’d ever known. Almost as if she were being . . . cherished.
She put a tentative hand to his face, feeling the faint prickle of bristles under the firm, smoothly shaven skin, and breathed him in. The light fragrance of his cologne mingled with a darker, more masculine scent. It was addictive.
Still feathering her with kisses, he stroked along her jawline with one hand and slipped his fingers into her hair, loosening her pins and letting her hair fall out of its careful knot. One long, strong finger stroked the tender skin of her nape. Faint shivers ran down her spine, warm and enticing.
His mouth closed over hers, and she recoiled in surprise as his tongue ran along the seam of her lips, gently insistent. She pulled back, startled.
Gray eyes, dark with some unknowable emotion, met hers. “Alice?” he murmured. He leaned forward again to capture her mouth, and again she pulled away.
“I’m not . . . Oh, stop it.” She pushed feebly at his hands and said in a choked voice, “Don’t you see? I can’t.”
He released her at once. “Can’t what, sweetheart?” His voice was low, understanding.
“Can’t be married. Ever. Not ever.” She crushed his handkerchief in her hands and fought to regain her composure. She’d allowed him to kiss her. It was a mistake. Giving him the wrong idea.
“Not even to me?” As an attempt at lightness, it fell sadly flat.
Despairing, she shook her head. “It would only make us both miserable in the end.” Sooner than later.
“I don’t see why.”
“Perhaps you don’t, but I know. I cannot be a wife to you, or any man.” Her voice cracked, and a few more tears trickled down her cheeks. She scrubbed at them with his handkerchief. “Marriage, for me, was . . . was . . . unbearable. So please, let us drop the subject.”
“But—”
“No. Just . . . no.” In a stifled voice she added, “Please leave.”
He hesitated, then rose slowly and stood, troubled as he gazed down at her. “I’m sorry, Alice, so sorry I have upset you. I’ll leave you now, my dear. I have no wish to distress you any further.” His voice was like a caress, warm and deep and sincere, and it brought on a fresh flood of useless tears.
Eyes squeezed closed—she couldn’t bear to look at him and see the reproach, or hurt, in his eyes—Alice shook her head. He hadn’t distressed her; it was the situation, the resurgence of old pain, the reminder of hopes crushed and dreams shattered. All because, foolishly, she had let herself dream again, just a small, timid, hopeful dream that she could be content with half a loaf—with friendship. But that had turned out to be just as painful, if not more so.
She held out his handkerchief, and when he didn’t take it, she looked up.
Lord Tarrant was gone.
* * *
* * *
James walked home, his thoughts back in that room with Alice. What was going on? I cannot be a wife to you, or any man. What did she mean by that?
Did she mean she was repulsed by the opposite sex? Some women were attracted more to their own sex than to men. But he didn’t think Alice was one of them.
He thought about their kiss—well, it was barely a kiss. She’d stiffened at first, like a wooden doll, wary, as if expecting . . . expecting what? He had no idea. But he’d felt her trembling and knew she was taut and on edge.
So he’d taken it gently at first, slow and reassuring.
And she hadn’t repudiated him or his attentions. In fact, after a few moments she’d softened in his arms and started to unfurl, like a flower opening to the sun. She’d begun to relax against him, savoring his caresses, mild as they were. The way she’d hesitantly stroked his face—she wasn’t repelled by him, he was sure of that. In fact, he was pretty sure he’d felt the first few shivers of arousal rippling gently through her.
She was attracted to him, he was certain—well, as certain as a recently rejected man could be.
Marriage, for me, was unbearable.
Lord, but that husband of hers had a lot to answer for. Thaddeus Paton had been an insensitive bully at school, and James doubted he’d changed much. Any woman would be miserable with him.
But she’d said “unbearable.” What part of marriage was unbearable for her?
He thought about the moment she’d jerked back, pulling away from him. What had he done to cause her to startle like a wild bird? He tried to remember. It wasn’t easy, as he’d been losing himself in her, the taste of her entering his blood, the hunger in him growing.
The taste of her—that was it.
It was when he’d stroked the seam of her lips with his tongue.
She’d pulled back, surprised. A little shocked. As if . . .
No, surely not. She was a married woman. She’d been married for eighteen years. And yet . . .
He picked up his pace. Part of him wanted to turn around, march back into her house and get to the bottom of it, but she’d had enough upset for the day. He wanted her in his life and in his bed, and the last thing he wanted to do was to bully her.
Chapter Eleven
I’m sorry, Gerald dear,” his aunt said as she came down the stairs, “but she doesn’t want to speak to you.”
Gerald clenched his teeth. It was his second time asking to see her, but Lucy Bamber refused to do him the courtesy of letting him explain. It was infuriating.
After that drive in the park, he couldn’t get the look in her eyes out of his mind. It disturbed him. He needed to speak to her, to set things straight.
But she had this absurd prejudice against anyone with a title.
Anytime in his first twenty-six years he would have been perfectly acceptable to her—unless she was also prejudiced against army officers. For the first two decades of his life, he’d had no title, nor any expectation of one. But eighteen months ago, he’d become a viscount, and thus was persona non grata for Miss Lucy Bamber.
Miss Lucy Bamber of no particular background. In fact, of a particularly shady background.
Blast her. He was in a mood to storm off, but his aunt had other ideas. “Come into the drawing room, and we’ll have a nice cup of tea, and you can tell me what you’ve been up to.” She smiled. “And I have something particular to tell you.”