Page 58 of The Love Potion
It shot him over the edge. He had a handkerchief ready, but it still was a scramble to get it in place. He was overcome by her. And when he caught his breath again, she was looking at him with wonder.
He had no restraint to stop himself. She was still open and ready. He grabbed her skirt and hiked it up. Then he dropped to his knees and drank her. Lips, tongue, every part of his mouth on her. Until he thrust his fingers inside her and felt her glory again.
Such wonder.
Such bliss.
And when she shuddered again beneath his tongue, he felt such powerful emotions fill him that he could not contain them. He gripped her thighs, he straightened up from where he was, and he held her as he would the most precious treasure in the world.
In time, she recovered. In time, she turned her face to his. Which is when he spoke his truth.
“This thing—sex and all that can happen between a man and a woman—it should be between two people who love each other. It should never be sold to the highest bidder.”
Her gaze focused, her expression tightened, but not so much that she withdrew from him. “And do you love me?” she asked.
Part of him screamed,Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes. But a century of ducal breeding held his tongue. He could not promise that and not promise all the other things that went with it. Respect, status, her place at his side. A duke could not be devoted to a woman so socially compromised. And he certainly couldn’t choose her against Prinny’s command.
And yet, how could he not? How could he do what they had done without giving himself to her? Without loving her as he had just declared was the only reason to be with one another this way?
And as he fought with himself, with his responsibilities to his title and the Crown, she slowly withdrew from him. Her expression fell, her eyes slid away, and she steadily set her clothing back in order.
He helped her, and she did not fight his aid. But she certainly didn’t welcome it either. And in the end, when they were both attired as they ought to be, she looked at him one last time.
“If the man I want above all else cannot claim me, then I shall make what future I can without him.”
He wanted to argue with her, but what could he say? She was right. But he couldn’t promise to help her. Not into anotherman’s arms. And apparently not into his own. Because the idea of making her his mistress was abhorrent. She was worth so much more.
He didn’t know what the solution was. And in his silence, she left him. Then, once the door shut behind her, shame brought him to his knees.
Chapter Eighteen
Kynthea walked slowlyout of the tack room. Her body was steady, but inside every part of her was shaking. In the space of five minutes, she’d gone from the heights of delight to the cruelest pain she’d ever felt.
And what a ridiculous statement that was, she admonished herself. She had felt aching grief—still did—whenever she thought about her parents. A man could not compare to the loss of her parents. Especially a man she’d known only a very short time.
It was the depth and speed of the fall that so shocked her. She’d had a few days to prepare for her parents’ deaths. This swing had happened in minutes. And it had shattered everything inside her.
She found a bench to sit upon. It was a lovely place amid the flowers. Even the sun shone on her face if she tilted her head just right.
These feelings inside her were her own fault. She’d known from the beginning that a duke could not love her. She’d known that anything they did together was just a dalliance. And yet she’d allowed it. She’d wanted it. Whenever he was near, her body overcame her reason. And when he touched her… Well, there was no space for clear thinking. She doubted she would have stopped him if he’d tried to take her maidenhead.
And that made her ten thousand times a fool.
It was time for her to grow up. Only silly girls dreamed at night about a duke. Romantics spoke of love. She could not afford to be either. She had days at most before she would be out on the street. It was time for her to think of a solution other than the perfidious duke.
She wiped her tears away and stared hard at a sunlit weed. That was her, she decided. Somewhere else, she might be a prized plant. But here, she was an outcast, soon to be uprooted and tossed aside to die. But she was hardy, and she refused to go quietly. She’d heard of weeds that came back year after year, growing in the sunlight despite everything a gardener did to keep them out.
She was not going to Spain or Russia. That was a death sentence. She could not go back to Cornwall. Too many people knew of her, and it would be a miserable life. Excited by fantasies of the duke, she’d imagined being his mistress. No matter what she’d said to him—or herself—she now knew that her heart had always been planning to be his. Why else would she have gone so blithely into the tack room?
Because she loved him. And that was a stupid, ridiculous, idiotic thing to do.
She couldn’t be his mistress now. Even if he wanted her—which he clearly did not—her stupid heart couldn’t take it. She wanted more with him, and since he could not give it…well, she would have to look elsewhere.
But could she do that with someone else? She’d thought so, but now that she’d tasted physical intimacy, the thought of doing that with anyone else made her physically ill. Damn it, she hadn’t known what it felt like. If she’d never experienced what they’d done, then maybe…
But she had and she did and now…
What was she going to do?
