Page 34 of Miss Desirable
He tucked his arm around her. “I’ve missed you too. That is a sign that I am alive and that I still have a heart. If we are not to ride in coaches, would you like to hack out with me some fine and misty morning?”
“I ought not.”
“Because of whatever it is that preoccupies you.” Whateverworriedher. Whatever kept her from admitting that she wanted to waltz at midnight beneath glittering chandeliers and attire herself in the latest fashions.
“Be quiet, Fournier. You told the coachman to takeun itinéraire indirect. Presuming of you.”
“Hopeful of me. I did not realize I could still have hopes, beyond hopes for a good harvest, or for my friends to prosper.”
“I want to kiss you again.”
Bon Dieu.“What stops you?”
The coach made a slow turn, while Fournier’s fingertips wandered over Catherine’s features. Strong jaw, smooth brow, velvety lips. Desire began as a whispered longing, and even that was encouraging.
Enjoyable.
“I don’t seek to marry,” Catherine said. “I saw what my parents had, a partnership of sorts. They were loyal in a way that transcended mere fidelity. I suspect my father conducted liaisons that furthered his diplomat aspirations, and my mother… I was conceived out of her loyalty to my father in a sense. They esteemed one another, and they loved me, but I haven’t the fortitude for such an arrangement.”
Nothing in that recitation struck Fournier as untrue, but neither was it relevant. “And your brother Ash and his wife. They are also married. Sycamore is married. Could you not tolerate a man who adores you as they apparently adore their wives?”
“Adoration is for paragons and saints. I am neither.”
“God be thanked for small mercies.” Fournier took the initiative and kissed her, because he realized they had come to that. Catherine had stated her wishes, had acted on those wishes, and now she was stating terms as well.
No entanglement. No expectations. No assuming she would hand over her future and her fortune for the sake of a few pleasurable moments. Good terms, terms to inspire a man to negotiate better terms yet.
Catherine shifted to take a proper hold of him. As Fournier freed a hand to dim the coach lamp, he had the thought that Catherine Fairchild would have made an admirable Frenchwoman.
Then he could not think anything at all, because her kissing was beyond admirable. She had the knack of exploring a man as if he were her fondest wish and the most exciting adventure ever laid at her feet. Her fingers winnowed through his hair, then gripped him by the nape. She slipped a hand beneath his waistcoat, pressing her palm flat so he felt his heart beat against her caresses.
All the while, she kissed him, he allowed himself to revel in the pleasure, then the touch of her tongue to his lips dashed cold reason on the flames of eagerness.
Fournier lifted away from certain bliss and cupped the back of Catherine’s head against his palm. “If we continue as we’ve begun, this coach will burst into flames.”
She snickered, a wonderful sound. “Not very discreet of us, to make a bonfire of your town coach.”
“Discretion matters to you very much.”
She smoothed her hand over his cravat. “Discretion is mandatory, Fournier. I am, much to my surprise, contemplating the unthinkable with you. I cannot afford to court scandal, and your own standing in polite circles will not benefit from gossip either.”
“But you are tempted, and my kisses are irresistible?”
“Your kisses are exquisite, but it’s your… your genuineness that tempts me. You do not posture and pretend. You admit your regrets. You live life as it is, not as you wish it or demand that it should be.”
He would not, in other words, make trouble when she discarded him. “Who taught you to choose your intimate partners for their ability to weather abandonment without complaint?”
With his arms around her, Fournier could feel the shock of his question reverberate through Catherine. She was no old hand at the game of dalliance, then. Far from it.
“I haven’t exactly conducted myself like the whore of Babylon, Fournier.”
He put a finger to her lips. “Never speak so ill of yourself, please. You are not that seventeen-year-old girl plotting rebellion against the parents who denied her a come out. I am not a randy squire who has come up to Town for some sport. I care for you, else you would not be in this coach.”
Catherine remained silent as the coach made another turn. They were circling, meaning they’d reached their destination despite Fournier’s direction to the coachman.
“A liaison with you—with anybody—is not what I had planned,” Catherine said, straightening. “To be so preoccupied is inconvenient, but you… If somebody asked me to sketch a man who could hold my interest, I would have said he must be honorable above all, also sensible, able to laugh at himself, worldly, have a purpose beyond his own entertainment, be astute, and honest, and kind. Then you come along, and I find myself adding to the list. Handsome in a dashing, Continental sort of way would be nice. Facile with languages is always delightful. Well traveled, worldly… an excellent kisser…”
She’d forgotten patient. Did she but know it, Fournier had learned many and strategic forms of patience.
