Page 56 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s nothing. But I’ll hold this to it a bit longer, and then maybe you’ll let me slice the apples. Are we making apple pie? Wasn’t it apple pie that Mrs. Davies served us that day?”
“We are making nothing. You are going to get some rest. And it was rhubarb pie she served.”
“Ah,” he said on a long sigh. “You remember that day in as much detail as I do.” He touched her waist and turned her to face him. “Blythe,” he said, leaning closer. “Blythe.”
His lips touching hers, he pulled her close until her breasts pressed against his broad chest, their hearts beating together. A soft nibble, a gentle press, and then he angled his head and took the kiss deeper, bending her back against the counter. Heat flared and spread through her, wings of desire fluttering inside her. The kiss was gentle and seductive and then firmly inviting, his mouth opening and coaxing, and she shook off his handkerchief and threaded her fingers through the hair at the back of his head.
She wanted to fly away on that kiss, to submerge herself in sheer pleasure; the sheer pleasure of kissing a man who, if she was honest, she’d been wanting to kiss since he’d walked into the drawing room four days ago. Or had it been five days?
Cool air touched her shoulder and she looked down. He’d loosened her apron and robe and was touching her breast through the cotton of her nightgown, gently, each stroke sparking rivers of molten desire straight to her nether regions.
She leaned back and covered her gasps with one hand and pressed the other flat against his chest. She must stop him.
But maybe not yet. It had been so long, so very, very long since she’d felt anything like desire.
And it wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe.
His eyes glowed darkly as he watched her. “I’ve wanted this for years.”
I’ve wanted this for years.
Another voice rang in her memory. Lips crushing hers, a body pressing against hers.
No, she heard her own voice cry the word inside her head as her body began to tremble.
His hand froze. He stepped back and secured her robe and apron.
“You’re not ready,” he said.
Summoning her courage, she tried to speak calmly. “This is fraught… fraught, Graeme, with… with the kinds of problems, complications neither of us wants.”
“Who will know?”
Her blood turned to ice in her veins. Who will know. Lord Vernon’s words. Archie’s words.
She opened her eyes and saw that he was watching her.
“You’re right, of course,” he said. “It’s complicated and if people don’t exactly know, they will speculate. I am not Lord Vernon. Or Archie, or the other fellow who turned over his phaeton. I want you, Blythe. And I care for you.”
His intense gaze moved from her eyes to her lips, and her knees went weak.
“People have said, I should take a l-lover…” She cleared her throat. “now that I’m widowed.”
And oh, how I want you in this moment.
“But it can’t be you, Graeme. If Diddenton prevails, if I lose Bluebelle Lodge, I will have to sue you and how awkward will that be?”
“You won’t have to sue me, my love. You will never have to sue me.” He smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since I was twelve years old. Yes.” He nodded at her skeptical grimace. “At the village fayre when I bumped into you and your lemonade spilled all over your white gown with the blue flowers?—”
“I wanted to box your ears.”
“But you didn’t. You laughed. In that moment, I fell in love with you.”
“You had a strange way of showing it.”
“I spent my school holidays here in Hampshire with my friend Lionel, do you remember? If we didn’t find you in the village, or out walking, we would always come visit you at Bluebelle Lodge. I was always trying to spend time with you.”
She shook her head. “I only remember the last time we spoke. You caught me in the lane, and you called me a?—”
