IT was too much. It had to be too much. How could there be so much feeling bound up in one kiss?
When Max’s mouth met hers, it wasn’t a tentative exploration like before—it was an explosion. His hands had roughly pulled her body to his, the warmth of his taut muscular frame pressing through the layers of clothing between them. Those same hands moved over her body, wound their way into her hair, shaking pins free and tossing the little green hat ruthlessly to the ground.
Gail’s own hands clung to his coat, itching to crawl up his back to tickle the hair at the nape of his neck, to feel the stubble on the line of his jaw, but…
“Take off your gloves,” he said roughly, breaking his mouth from hers just long enough to speak, his breathing ragged. “I want to feel your hands on me.”
He recaptured her lips as she divested herself of the offending accessories. Once her hands were free, she let them do just as they pleased, running up the soft wool of his coat, finding that small bit of flesh at the base of his ear, teasing with feather-light touches.
Max, who had been burning with his own desire, immediately became hard as stone upon feeling Gail’s light caresses and pulled her closer, forcing her soft curves to melt and meld into his hard planes.
He kissed her closed eyes, her temples, ravaged the soft flesh of her earlobe, worshipped the long lines of her neck. When his explorations met with the high green velvet collar of her habit, nimble thumbs made quick work of the top three buttons—exposing the sensitive skin of the notch at the base of her throat, already rising and falling with rapid, erratic breaths.
“Please,” Gail breathed hoarsely, “I…I want…”
He knew. Max kissed her again, their tongues mating in a rhythm of pure, burning, unrestrained lust.
All wits were gone. All sense of propriety, of time, of what was correct fled in the face of what felt right. Gail felt her hands move from Max’s neck, to the front of his jacket, to under that layer of wool. She ran them over the strong muscles of his shoulders, pushing the jacket off as she went—all the time feeling, feeling, feeling the incredible strength and sensation of this man.
God, how she wanted him. The thought flashed into Gail’s brain with all the welcome of a bucket of cold water. She wanted him. In every way it was possible to want another person. How on earth did that happen?
Max felt her stiffen immediately. Nerves, he thought. He’d wager neither of those European fellows had kissed her like this. He smiled against her mouth. She was Gail. She was warm and alive and in his arms, and the only way this could be any more right was if she was on the ground and beneath him.
Which seemed a fine idea to Max.
Slowly, he began to bend at the knees, his mouth never leaving Gail’s, soothing her into pliancy. She bent with him, into the soft moss of the spring ground, her mind still reeling with the implications of her own realization.
“Max…” she moaned. “Max, stop for a moment.”
He pulled away, but only for the space of time that allowed him to divest himself of his half-off jacket and lay it on the grass behind her.
Seeing this, Gail’s eyes grew wide with surprise. Still kneeling, Max kissed her neck, his hand working a few more buttons of her habit’s jacket.
“Max, we should…I think we should stop.”
Gail felt his hand inside of her habit, caressing the rise of her breast. Immediately, her nipples tightened, peaked with want, and she instinctively arched into him.
“Oh God, don’t stop,” she gasped.
Wicked triumph flashed in his green eyes. His body had been craving this for weeks, and finally his mind was willing to acknowledge it. Succumb to it. Gently, Max lowered Gail back onto his hastily laid out jacket. His arousal strained against the prison of his breeches, his skin hot to the touch. Gail Alton had been driving him crazy since they met—now it was his turn to drive her mad.
Slowly, and with infinite patience, Max let his weight settle on top of Gail’s long body. Her massive skirts billowed about them, making a nest of green velvet and white lace underthings.
His weight was thrilling. The warm rumblings at the pit of her belly became throbs as his right hand caressed and fondled her breast while the left undid the remaining buttons of her jacket. Pulling aside the lapels, Max grinned wolfishly as he revealed only a light lawn chemise.
“No corset,” he said roughly.
“Well, honestly, have you ever tried riding in a corset? It’s imp…ohhhhh…” He had pulled down the neckline of the chemise, and the rest of her argument was lost to the mind-bending sensation of his mouth on her breast.
Her rapid breathing, the small little noises at the back of her throat were so unbelievably erotic to him—they were the sounds of innocence giving way to knowledge. And he had so much he wanted to teach her.
Max let his mouth drift farther down her body, dropping kisses through the chemise onto her ribcage, her stomach, just below her navel.
Her body was shaking.
Running his lips back up her body, Max looked into Gail’s eyes. While his had nearly gone black with need, hers shone with curiosity, desire, and fear.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered between kisses. “I won’t hurt you.”
And she knew he wouldn’t. But still she clung to the back of his shirt like it was a lifeline, as he kissed her deeply. Slowly, he drew up the hem of her skirts. The cool air brushed against her stockinged calves, her knees. His hand ran over them lightly, relishing the feeling of her strong, well-made limbs. Max groaned against her mouth at the sudden image that flashed into his head: Gail’s long naked legs wrapped around his equally naked torso. He had to lift his shaking hand from her knee just long enough to ensure that he wouldn’t force her legs apart and plunge into her right then and there. When he thought himself calm enough, he allowed himself to continue the explorations of her underskirts.
She was so soft. When he had first kissed her, he had been surprised at such a sharp person having such soft lips. The memory of that softness had kept him awake at night. As he reached the edge of her stockings, tied just above the knee, Max found skin that was even softer. The inside of her thighs nearly made him lose control. His blood was racing through his veins, urging him to go further, to take more, to make her his. But she was an innocent, he thought savagely, struggling to keep his body in check.
That is, until Gail, the little vixen, pulled his shirt out of his breeches and ran her long fingers down the smooth flesh of his back, dipping them just under his waistband, feeling the top of his buttocks.
All sense of decency flew from Max’s brain as he tore at the buttons of his breeches.
He kissed her with a ferocity that pushed her firmly into the wool of his coat, into the moss of the ground. God, no one’s touch had ever undone him like this. Not Sally the milkmaid when he was thirteen, certainly not Evangeline…
Evangeline.
Oh God.
He froze immediately. He lifted himself away from her. Each inch that separated them was hell, his every nerve crying out in protest, simply wanting to sink deeper and deeper within Gail, until it was impossible to tell where she ended and he began. But he couldn’t. It nearly killed him, but he couldn’t.
Finally, he managed to remove himself completely and sat on the ground beside her. But he wouldn’t look at her, for he knew what he would see. Her lips full and bruised from his kisses. Her hair a glorious mess. Her jacket open, that little chemise doing nothing to hide the round glory of her breasts, rising and falling rapidly with her uneven breathing. Her eyes—oh God, her eyes would still shine with the force of her desire, but cloud with confusion and disappointment. They would mirror his. But she had no idea what had been inches from occurring.
What the hell had they been doing? Max’s mind flashed angrily. He was engaged to Gail’s sister, for God’s sake. And here he was, Lord Fontaine, English gentleman, about to take her on the grass in the middle of Hyde Park! He wanted to laugh. He wanted to beat the living daylights out of something. Instead, he settled for raking his hands ruthlessly through his hair.
“Max?” Gail’s tentative voice broke his self-control, and he answered with a barbaric yell, full of all his rage at himself. All of the crows in the trees took flight at his outcry, and he stood up quickly, pacing like a caged beast.
“Max?” she tried again, but he would not stop pacing, would not look at her.
“Max?” her voice broke.
“No!” he yelled, making her jump. “Cover yourself,” he said sharply.
Shaky hands closed the buttons of her jacket, straightened her skirts, fruitlessly smoothed her unruly hair. When she was presentable again, Max turned to her, but still was too ashamed of himself to meet her gaze.
“Gail,” he began, then coughed, and started again. “Miss Alton. That was…We can’t…I…”
He couldn’t finish, because he quite honestly didn’t know where to start. She seemed to understand though, and said quietly, “I know.”
He turned to look at her then and saw the pain, the guilt, the sadness in her face, and it sliced at his heart.
“It’s my fault,” he said quickly.
“No, it’s mine,” Gail replied. “If I hadn’t felt that way—”
“It’s mine,” he cut her off ruthlessly, brooking no argument.
Then, softly, Gail whispered to herself, “This is the worst thing I’ve ever done.”
Every nerve in Max’s body was screaming that it was in fact, the best thing he’d ever done. He was still hard for her, and he wanted to shake Gail for her stupidity, take her in his embrace and soothe her worries, kiss her until she agreed with him, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t put his arms around her and assuage her guilt. He couldn’t tell her everything was going to be all right and normal and fine. It wasn’t. He was marrying one Alton girl but wanted, needed, craved the other.
It was going to hurt.
“Miss Alton, I can’t be near you anymore,” Max said curtly.
She gave a small guffaw of disbelief. “How, Lord Fontaine,” she said sadly, “do you propose we avoid each other? You’re at my home nearly every day.”
“I don’t…I don’t know,” he said to his toes.
Silence threatened to swallow them, if their own rampaging thoughts didn’t trample them first. Finally, after what seemed like achingly long minutes, Max’s head snapped up.
“I have to go,” he said, and he gathered Jupiter from a nearby patch of grass. He mounted, rather uncomfortably, but was kept from leaving by Gail’s small cry of “Wait!”
She stood and crossed to him.
“Your coat,” she said, holding the garment out to him. He took it—it smelled like her. Max could not avoid Gail’s direct stare or the determined set of her jaw. The fire of her eyes was banked now, but her hair was still mussed from his ministrations. It made Max’s mouth go dry.
With a quick nod, he sank his heels into Jupiter’s flanks and sped away from Gail, and away from temptation.
ALONE now, Gail let the silence of the grotto envelop her. The crows had flown, there were no more to count. Gail picked up her hat and did not cry. She gathered her horse and absolutely did not cry. She located her gloves, found Jimmy some half a mile away, and refused to cry all the way home.
ON the other side of the park, Lord Hurstwood, having recently quitted a duel where sadly no one was shot, crossed a large meadow that gave way to a lake. There, as he told a friend later that morning, he was certain he saw Lord Fontaine diving into, fully clothed, what must have been freezing water.