it felt as though she was being stalked by a wolf. In comparison, St Aldric’s pass was easy, relaxed and confident. He smiled at her, enjoying the dance, enjoying her company.
She turned back to Sam, who was watching her too intently, a frown upon his face. His eyes bored into hers, taking in her every movement to the point where it became alarming. And past the frown and the beetled brow, she saw the truth.
Jealousy. Frustration. Rage. It was not distaste that kept him away. He wanted her as much as he had on the day that they had kissed.
And now she danced with St Aldric again. In his eyes, she saw nothing of importance. He possessed her already, or very nearly did, and thus he was thinking of something else.
But each time Sam took her hand, it was as if he never meant to let it go. The release was stiff and graceless, as though he’d forced his fingers open to let her escape. He was gritting his teeth in concentration. He did not need to count the steps, for he seemed to have no trouble keeping track. His posture was rigid, as though he suffered pain at each touch of her fingers.
Yet he could not seem to get enough of it.
When they finished, she allowed him to escort her back to the place they had been standing. Then he walked away without a word.
She stood for a moment, in indecision, then she followed, out of the ballroom and through the halls of the house, to the place she knew he must go.
It was dark in the garden, smelling of night-blooming flowers and the beginnings of the still heat that would drive the ton to Bath or the country. They had not bothered to light the yard, so no one had strayed from the house. But someone who was familiar with it would need no light to find the garden bench under the elm. He was there, of course, a dim outline against the darker bark of the tree.
She sat down beside him. He did not acknowledge her presence, so they sat in silence for a time, not wanting to spoil the moment. Then he said, ‘You promised, Evie. You promised that it would not come to this if I stayed.’
‘You were right, before, when you said we could not waltz.’ If they had, she’d have made a fool of herself, clinging to him on the dance floor. If she was in his arms, how could she do else?
He sighed. ‘You feel it as well, then? I hoped perhaps you had been spared and that the other day, in my rooms, had been an aberration.’
She nodded, wondering if he could see. ‘If it is not possible to master the feeling, then perhaps we should not try.’
He did not move to look at her, sitting as still as he had when she’d joined him. ‘You do not understand. Not truly.’
‘I understand that there are scant minutes left, before my choice is irrevocable. If there is any reason to change my mind, I will take it.’ She reached for his hand and squeezed it, hoping that he would feel the urgency.
‘You must trust me to know what is best for you,’ he said with his best physician’s tone, ‘And I tell you that there is no reason for you not to marry St Aldric. In fact, I insist that you do.’
‘Why must you keep playing the tiresome older brother?’ she said with an amazed shake of the head.
‘I have not done it enough in recent years.’ he replied. ‘You need someone to talk some sense into you, since your father cannot seem to manage it.’
‘Sometimes, I wonder if you are just thick, despite all your fancy education, or if you are joking with me. You know that brotherly wisdom is not what I want from you.’
‘What else can I offer?’ He sounded so hopeless, she wavered between pity and annoyance. It seemed that if she wanted words of love, she would have to speak them herself.
‘Let me put it plainly, since you refuse to. I love you, Sam. I always will. I wish you to offer for me. But you are pretending that you do not understand. Please, Sam. Please. Declare yourself. I will speak to Michael, and to Father.’ She gave his hand another urgent squeeze.
She shifted her body, ever so slightly, towards his and turned so that their faces were only inches apart—and suddenly they were kissing in a moonlit garden. In an instant, it was as it had been in his rooms.
She tried to remember where she was. And when. There were people waiting for her in the ballroom. And a man who wanted nothing more than to make her his bride.
But she could not stop wanting the man who would make no promises. There were so many things wrong with the moment that she could hardly enumerate them.
So she thought of none of them and opened her mouth.
She could hear the rustle of her own satin gown as he crushed her body to his and feel the rapid flutter of her tongue in his mouth. His circled to still it, filling her mouth with the taste of him.
His hand was at the back of her neck and he hesitated, stroking once, carefully, so as not to disarrange the curls. Then he smoothed over her neck, her shoulders, her throat, and very carefully slipped inside the bodice of her gown.
The man she loved was touching her breast. She caught her breath and held it, giving him more room to touch her as he kissed. His hand was gentle, even as his mouth was not, warm on her skin, his fingertips barely touching the puckering tip as his teeth grazed her lips and his tongue pushed deep, retreated and returned.
If this was what he wanted from her, she would gladly give it. Her legs trembled and her centre was wet, as she knew it would be when the time was right to join with a man. If she had the nerve to touch him, as she had in his room, she was sure that he would be hard for her and just as eager as she felt.
Her hands were beneath his coat, on his waist. It was improper, but wonderful. She slipped them under the bottom of his waistcoat and could almost feel his ribs through the linen of his shirt.
In response, his fingers closed on her nipple and tugged. She gasped, biting at his lower lip, wanting more. He must give it to her. He simply must. She needed his tongue on her breast, and his body in hers, so that they might be one in flesh, as they had always been in spirit.
Her hands dropped lower, clutching him firmly by the backside. And she pulled herself upwards, forwards, into his lap. And for just a moment, she felt the bulge of him pressing against her through her gown. The trembling seemed to come from inside her now, like the expectant rumbling at the beginning of a storm.
He pulled himself away from the kiss and whispered into her ear. ‘Is this what you want from me?’ He thrust his hips against her.
She nodded eagerly, digging her fingers into the muscles of his body and pressing herself against the hardness, praying that this was the answer he wanted, the one that would make him continue.
‘Because it is what I want from you,’ he said. The hand that caressed her breasts squeezed to the point of pain. ‘It is what I have wanted from you since my first desire. To taste your body with my mouth. To push myself into you. To spill my seed.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, closing her eyes. ‘Yes. Yes.’ She could imagine him there and the moment of helpless surrender when she became his.
‘This is what I want,’ he whispered, his breath in her ear even hotter than his kiss. ‘And it has nothing to do with a romantic declaration, or a marriage. I want to have you, right now, here in the garden, naked like Eve. I want
