Yes, she was counting on residing in this house again. It was decided. It was what she wanted and William had agreed.
It felt in poor taste, however, to speak of it with Kingston, a man with whom she had recently shared intimacies, however ill-advised those encounters happened to be . . . however much they would not repeat on those mistakes, however much she battled the shame of her actions.
Even if she believed herself unable to resist, she still battled with shame.
“Ah. Might you then? With Pembroke?” Despite her prevarication he saw directly to the matter. He stared at her politely, patiently waiting for her response.
“Well, actually . . .” No sense lying. Perhaps it would be a good thing for him to realize how very much their paths diverged.
He stared at her mildly. Apparently he felt no reaction over the mention of her impending marriage. Something pinched near her heart at that. Relief, she supposed. What else could it be?
“Yes,” she admitted. “William and I have decided to move in here after we’re married.”
She studied him then. Was it her imagination or did he look affected at this announcement? For the briefest moment did the line of his mouth compress?
“I am certain living here will make your marriage more palatable.” He delivered the words so politely it was not easy to detect the offense given at first. Until she did detect it.
Until she heard and felt the remark for all its intended sting.
She pulled back her shoulders in affront. “My marriage will be palatable no matter where we reside.”
His look turned pitying. “Do you think so?”
“Oh,” she puffed in outrage. “Are you deliberately insulting me?”
“Does the truth offend?”
“It’s not the truth,” she insisted.
Again came a pitying look. “If your impending marriage to this Pembroke fellow was right for you, then you would not care where you lived as long as you were together.”
“Well, o-of course, that is true,” she stammered.
“Is it true, though?” he queried, one eyebrow arched in skepticism. He motioned about him. “I think you love this house and the idea of returning to it more than the man you’re to wed.”
“Oh!” Heat swelled up from her chest to burn her face. She opened her mouth, wanting to deny him further, but she was too busy digesting his words.
Was this house more important to her than William? Could that be true?
He pressed on. “In fact, I don’t think you love your betrothed at all.”
She sputtered at the accusation, pointing a trembling finger to the door. The man did not know when to cease. “I think you should leave, Mr. Kingston.”
“Mister Kingston, is it? What happened to Samuel? Or, if you prefer, Sam?”
He strode closer, his tread falling on the bare wood floor in steady thuds. The plush Aubusson rug that once covered the floor was another thing gone, another thing sold off. “If you felt even a fraction of love for your Mr. Pembroke you would never have touched me . . . never have let me touch you. Even now, you would not look at me the way you do.”
Dear heavens. What way did she look at him?
She must have asked the question aloud because he was answering her with a slow smile that belied the gravity in his voice.
“You are looking at me as though you would like to continue where we left off at the pond. You’re looking at me,” he repeated, his voice an erotic rasp, “as though you can still taste me . . . the way I can still taste you. With the morning light on your skin. The summer air wrapped around you.”
She was in trouble. Deeply. Tragically.
His words were dangerously seductive. And quite dangerously, possibly, true.
Growing up, whenever she had heard hushed gossip of young ladies that toppled over the brink into ruin, she had thought herself unlike them. She had never understood how they could succumb and give up all propriety.
Now she did. Now she understood.
Now she knew she had been a small-minded prig lacking imagination because she entirely and wholly understood how one could surrender to desire.
Now she understood how a man’s words could turn a woman giddy.
This close to Samuel, his words were a warm, heady husk on her skin. She felt intoxicated, drugged again, although that was not the case.
This time she could only blame herself for the way she melted beneath the sensual assault of his words.
She closed her eyes in a hard squeeze. This was wrong, and fair to no one . . . but especially not fair to William. He deserved the loyalty of a good woman, and presently she felt like neither of those things. Not loyal. Not good.
This had to stop.
Her eyes flew open. “We cannot continue to consort this way,” she said in a feverish rush.
“Why not?”
“I’m betrothed. I’m not free to . . . to do this.” She waved a hand back and forth between them.
“I’ll take you as you are. I’ll have you any way you’ll permit. Betrothed or not. I’m not an honorable sort.”
She blinked. He did not appear to be jesting. There was no pride or shame in his voice—no inflection at all. He uttered the words solemnly. Matter-of-factly.
Only she could agree with him.
He’d been respectful toward her and exhibited admirable restraint . . . even if he was offering to seduce her now.
He wasn’t a perfect man, but there was decency in him. She would even say . . . honor. She’d wager on it.
“I see you considering my words. You do not agree?”
She lifted her chin. “You are not the complete cad you would have me believe.”
The gold flecks in his eyes sparked. “Oh, you are far too trusting.”
“I’m not—”
“If you could read my thoughts you would not be so quick to defend me.” He laughed deeply and the sound was dark and rich, wrapping around her like the warmest, most luxurious fur. “It’s absurd, is it not? I’m being honest in that my intentions toward you are dishonorable . . . and you don’t believe me. Promise me you’ll stay in this provincial little hamlet forever and never venture to Town. The place is swimming with sharks ready to devour sweet chits such as yourself . . . even as they utter kind things to your face.”
She took a steadying breath. “I’m only saying you judge yourself too harshly. You have . . . limits.” Clearly, there were boundaries he would not cross. She knew that from their first encounter . . . and their second. “You would not—”
“Oh, don’t be so certain I wouldn’t.” His gaze warmed, the golden brown turning molten. “You have to feel it, too, between us. You know it’s there.”
Her breath caught.
Madness. He spouted madness. Tempting and impossible.
“It’s just . . . the tonic . . .” she whispered brokenly, desperately reaching for it, for something to explain this hopeless thing between them. She dragged her gaze away, hoping to hide anything that resembled longing in her expression.
“To hell with that bloody tonic. It has naught to do with the fire between us!”
Her gaze shot back to him, rattled, unable to breathe. Her body was afire.
Without touching her, she felt touched. Raw and exposed, vulnerable.
“You need to leave,” she blurted, pleased to hear the firmness in her voice.