Page 10 of The Boys of Summer
“And if I did want it?”
He stopped. They were concealed from view by those heavy drapes. No one was about. It was scandalous enough already. But if they were to do anything improper, and they were caught, she would be ruined entirely.
“Do you?” he asked.
She tried to say yes. But her throat simply closed on the word. She couldn’t utter a sound. Not so much as a squeak. Instead, she nodded. Then his head began to lower toward hers. It was instinct as much as anything else that had her eyes drifting closed. And when his lips brushed against hers, she couldn’t halt the shiver that wracked her body. It was not at all what she had expected.
Gentle and sweet, but there was heat in it. There was heat in her. She felt it growing and spreading inside her, warming her from within. The mechanics of kissing were something she’d never given much thought to. But it wasn’t simply that he pressed his lips against hers. No. His lips moved over hers, gently caressing and mapping, soothing and inflaming all at once. The scrape of his evening whiskers on her skin was a wonder. He made a sound then, one of pleasure that made her knees go weak. With the scent of him and the warmth of him, all her senses were engaged except for her sight. And by keeping her eyes so tightly shut, it seemed those other senses were only enhanced by it. That kiss swept her away. It quieted the doubts and fears that always seemed to shout so loudly in her mind. But it gave voice to something else inside her—it gave voice to need. Not just lust, but the need for connection, for touch.
For the first time in her life, she understood how a woman might be led astray.
Chapter Six
Augustus grasped thereins lightly and kept the pair of horses pulling the curricle at a slow and steady pace. The goal, after all, was to have as much time alone with Clarissa as possible, not to rush back to the crowded party.
It had been a long and sleepless night for him. In part because she’d stirred his blood to such a degree that he was in an agony of wanting.With one innocent kiss.There had also been a significant amount of doubt. Had he made a terrible error in kissing her? Had he frightened her? Had he played that card too soon and destroyed any chance he had with her?
Half-expecting to come downstairs for their outing and find out that she’d developed some convenient malady, he’d been quite shocked when she appeared only a moment or two behind him. Dressed and ready, she’d smiled warmly at him, then blushed prettily and looked away. It was one of the more hopeful moments he’d had since her first vehement and immediate refusal.
“It is beautiful countryside, isn’t it?”
The quietly posed question was the first word she had uttered since they had left the house. “It is lovely. Though I must admit it, I prefer my home in Leicestershire. It’s in the mountains there and you can look out over the entire valley below from the upper windows of Ainsley Hall.”
“Is that your estate? Ainsley Hall?” she asked.
“It is. It’s a bit a hodgepodge. Rambling and cobbled together. Parts of it date back to the Crusades. Others to the Tudor era. Others still were tacked on during the last century. But I hope, one day, to show you all the many secret nooks and crannies that it holds.”
She looked down at her clasped hands. “I think I should like that. But…” She trailed off, as if she had reconsidered what she wished to say.
“You need not be afraid to say anything to me, Clarissa. Whatever it is, I want to hear it. Above all, I want you to feel free to speak your mind with me.”
A moment of silence settled between them. It was not uncomfortable, however. When she spoke again, her voice was clear and strong. “I worry that your desire to marry me is only out of a sense of obligation. If I could choose, I’d prefer to be married to a man who actually knows me and wants me for who and what I am.”
He slowed the horses even more, wanting her to know that he was taking her very seriously. He gave his answer significant thought. “I do feel an obligation to you. But I can tell you that everything I’ve seen of you, everything I’ve learned about you, and every intimacy that has been shared between us, has made me thankful for that obligation—I am thankful, Clarissa, for anything that brought me to your side. Even the misery of my childhood was worth it, because until you came into my life that summer, I had no idea that anyone could care for me. Your kindness, your ability to offer compassion and care to someone others deemed so unworthy was a balm to my soul.”
“But your mother—”
“My mother was very ill for a very long time,” he said. “She could not intervene on my behalf, and even if she could have, she was too weak to do more than incite father’s wrath. The only kindness I ever knew in life was at your hands. And that will never be forgotten.”
Clarissa stared at him for a moment, her eyes filling with tears. There was pity for the boy he’d been, but there was something else glistening in her gaze. Hope. He could see hope within her. And then the first raindrop fell, splattering on her hand and shattering the spell.
“We should turn back,” she said.
He hated to admit that she was correct, but the skies had grown impossibly dark. Thunder rumbled and lightning crashed in the distance. As close as they were to the sea, storms could blow up very suddenly. It was impossible to say how long such a storm would last or how violent it might become. Easing the horses to a wider spot in the road, he turned the curricle and headed back to Haverton Abbey. The cart carrying a groom and Lady Helmsley’s maid followed suit.
The return trip was much quicker. He didn’t take the same leisurely pace as he had setting out. But as they reached the circular section of the long drive just before the entrance to Marchwood’s home, he heard Clarissa gasp in alarm.
“What is it?”
“My father,” she said, her face ashen. “My father has arrived.”
He followed her gaze to the worn carriage that was rounding the corner of the house toward the stables. There was no crest on it. But if she recognized it as her father’s, he knew that the reckoning she had feared was about to occur.
*
Edward Milson pacedthe study of Viscount Marchwood. Squire Timble lounged indolently in one of the chairs near the hearth where he’d demanded a fire be built for him though it was hardly necessary given that it was the middle of summer. Of course, given the man’s skeletal appearance, he supposed it was quite possible the relic was chilled. God how he despised the man. Their acquaintance over the years, friendly as it might have appeared, had been borne out of convenience more than anything else.
“Mr. Milson,” the viscount began in a placating tone, “I understand that you are upset.”
