He should have let her go. He’d known that from the second he’d opened his mouth to call her back. It had been torture enough being with her these past hours, wanting her and yet keeping himself aloof. It should have been a relief to be through with it all.
Yet when she’d turned to leave, he’d been filled by a panic so all-consuming, he’d reacted without thinking.
Now she was in his arms, and nothing had ever felt so right. Her lips were soft, giving beneath the pressure of his. She tasted of heaven, all sweetness and light, chasing away the darkness in his soul. Gone was the anger, the hate that had kept him going for so long. In its place was only need for her.
He cupped her cheek with his hand, felt the softness of her skin under his touch. The bones of her face were so fragile and fine, her hair like silk where it brushed his fingers. He deepened the kiss, urging her lips open, his every move careful, gentle, afraid to mark her with his roughness.
But she arched up into him, eager and frantic, and he felt the strength in her. Her fingers gripped tightly to his hair, the muscles of her back moved beneath his hands, lithe and powerful.
It was only when her tongue pushed through the barrier of his lips and touched his own, however, that the truth of her feelings came crashing down on him: she wanted him.
The realization drove him over the edge of sanity. He groaned and wrapped his arms about her, hauling her even closer, until there was not an inch of space between them. Their tongues sparred, clashed, her body pushing against his as if she couldn’t get close enough.
But he needed more of her. He tore his mouth free, trailed his lips across her cheek to the sensitive spot beneath her ear, nipped her skin with his teeth before moving lower. She gasped, small sounds of surprise and pleasure escaping her lips. Her head fell back, offering him what he was so desperate to take.
But he couldn’t. He pulled back, his chin dropping to his chest, his breath coming in hard pants. His hands crushed the delicate material of her gown and a soft curse broke free. What the hell was he doing? He was determined to remain unwed, to kill off the Ashford line, to destroy the dukedom. If he took Lenora as he so desperately wanted to, he would have to marry her. His honor would not let him do anything else.
A vision of that life rose up, being married to Lenora. Having her in his bed every night, enjoying her laughter and conversation every day. Raising a family with her, growing old with her.
The temptation of it stunned him. He might have jerked away from her, might have stumbled from the room with, if not his pride intact, at least with his heart unscathed.
If she hadn’t whispered, “Peter.”
He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to hear his name on her lips, how desperate he was that she should see beyond “Mr. Ashford” to the person he was beneath. Proof positive that, no matter his wishes on the matter, she had already touched his heart.
But in this moment, with her in his arms, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
His mouth came down open on the delicate place her neck met her shoulder. How could a woman taste like this, feel like this? She was like an angel come down from heaven, all stardust and sugar-spun clouds. He laved kisses over her collarbone, then lower, over the slight swell of her breasts at the edge of her gown. The skin there was so soft, he wanted to weep. She made a needy sound in her throat, rising up to meet his questing lips. He could so easily pull the bodice down, free her breast to his sight and touch.
He growled low, letting the sound of it ripple over her skin. She gasped in response, her fingers digging into the linen of his shirt, as if she would tear the material from him.
So much passion. He hadn’t expected it from her, had never thought her capable of it. But it was here, boiling over in his arms, until he could hardly think straight.
“My God, I want you,” he rasped, pulling back. Her eyes were closed, her face flushed.
It was then he saw the tears glistening on her cheeks. The trails of them winked in the lantern light, mocking him, berating him for his size, his roughness.
In an instant, he released her. She stumbled a step, righting herself. She was so damned beautiful standing there, her clothing rumpled, her mouth swollen from kisses. But his gaze was drawn to those tears. Proof that he should never have touched her, that he had no right to anything so lovely and pure and good.
Without a word, he turned and strode from the room, leaving the light behind him, letting the darkness of the house beyond swallow him up.
* * *
Lenora would never know how she made it to her room. Yet somehow she did, even managing to dress in her nightclothes, extinguish her light, and bury herself under her covers.
Sleep, however, wouldn’t come. Nor would her mind pay heed to her demands that it not think of Peter. Peter. Yes, he could be nothing else to her now. No mere Mr. Ashford would do. In the space of an instant, his importance had shifted to something more. Much more.
But that wasn’t true, was it? For the shift had begun before tonight, perhaps even from the first moment she’d stumbled into him and felt her world tilt even as he righted her. He had been working his way under her skin ever since, until it all coalesced into something hot and undeniable.
And with that came the memory of lips and hands, and the magic Peter had wrought on her.
Suddenly too hot, her skin too sensitive, Lenora threw back the covers. She focused on the sound of the waves outside her window, matching her breathing to them, trying to calm her body’s reaction. But not even Mother Nature’s power could dampen Peter’s effect on her. His every touch, every caress, had pulled a response from her that had frightened her with its intensity.
More frightening, however, had been her willingness to surrender to him. She had wanted what he had to give—wanted it still—more than air to breathe. The emotions he had brought up in her were more powerful, more overwhelming, than anything she had felt before. Her body had not been able to contain it all, her tears falling with a sweet kind of relief.
Why he had turned from her, she would never know. But she could only be grateful. For she knew in her heart that she wouldn’t have told him to stop. She would have given everything to him and more. A realization made all the worse knowing that she had never felt anything close to it for Hillram.
Eventually the sky began to lighten. By then her eyes were dry and itchy, the result of staring out the window all night long. Heaving a sigh, she rolled onto her back. Exhaustion sat heavily in her breast. She supposed she could close the drapes, bury herself under the covers, and claim a headache. She could stay in her room all day long.
And not have to face Peter and remember what they had done.
The idea was tempting.
But surely, with the coming dawn, the memory of last night would not have quite so much power over her. She would rise from her bed and face the day—and her feelings for Peter—so she could put it all behind her.
She threw back her covers, intent on finding a gown she could throw on quickly without having to call her maid. But after a cursory glance, she realized that the only dress that she could manage to do up herself was the one she had worn down to the ballroom the evening before.
The one she had kissed Peter in, which he had bunched his hands in while bombarding her with the most exquisite sensations imaginable.
She let loose a low growl, then stomped to where she had left her clothes draped over a chair. With quick, angry movements she donned them, then went to her dressing table to tug and pull her hair into a manageable braid. She refused to be cowed by what had transpired between them.
It was not until she had made her way downstairs and to the breakfast room, however, that she realized how early it was. The room had not yet been prepared for the morning meal, a lone chambermaid still sweeping the hearth. Hurrying out before the girl saw her, she chewed on her lip. What now? She was much too awake—and too determined to face what she had no wish to face—to return to her room.
Finally deciding that only a brisk walk would do, she pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders and made her way outside. The morning air was crisp, and heavy with moisture. She stopped on the front step, breathing in deeply, letting the faint mist of dew fill her lungs, taking in the scent of salt and sea. This Isle had been a place of refuge for her as a child, though she hadn’t understood it at the time. Now, looking back, she saw how it had allowed her a freedom she hadn’t had at home. There, she’d made sure to tread carefully, working hard every moment to be the daughter her father expected. On the Isle, however, she’d been encouraged to give her imagination free rein, and to explore that part of herself that she typically kept hidden away.
But though the place and the people in it were the same as ever, her youthful optimism was gone.
The realization sat heavily on her shoulders. She moved forward, heading across the drive and short lawn to the cliffs beyond. The wind came up from the ocean, made strong by the steep cliffs. It whipped her shawl about her, clawing at her hair until strands came free of her plait and slapped at her cheeks and neck. Stepping as close to the edge as she dared, she looked out over the roiling sea. It came up in sharp peaks, the white tops showing stark against the dark gray of the waters. A perfect accompaniment to the turmoil within her.
She wanted Peter. Even now, knowing he meant to leave in a little over a fortnight, she wanted him so badly, it hurt to breathe. For a moment, her willpower weakened, and she allowed herself to imagine him as he had been last night. When the maelstrom of emotions had carried her off, he had been the one thing grounding her. His arms about her, his lips on hers, had made her feel more alive, more herself, than she had in all the days and months before.
Sighing, she closed her eyes and raised her face to meet the wind, letting it carry the memory with it. The problem, of course, was that Peter was not a part of her world. No, he would eventually leave, and if she continued to care for him as she was, he would take her heart with him. And she would be left alone.
A familiar light step interrupted her thoughts; Margery had found her. She smiled. Perhaps not so alone after all.
“Dear heart, what are you doing out here?” Her friend stepped beside her and placed an arm about her shoulders.
Lenora opened her eyes and smiled into Margery’s worried ones. “Just getting a bit of air.”
But her friend didn’t return the smile. “You couldn’t sleep?”
“Not well, no.”
“Was it Hillram?”
Guilt flared, that Margery’s cousin had been the very last thing on her mind. She fought the urge to pull away. “No,” she answered, admitting the small truth.
To her surprise, Margery nodded, as if she had expected such an answer. “Was it Mr. Ashford?”
Gaping at her, Lenora did pull back then. “What?”
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And you seem to like him as well. I didn’t think much of it at first. But then last night, that strange conversation the two of you had in the drawing room. Now this morning he’s gone and you’re standing here by the cliffs, looking as lost as I’ve ever seen you.”
“He’s gone?”
She shouldn’t have asked it. She knew it the moment the words left her lips.
The worried glint in Margery’s eyes intensified. “Yes, he left not long ago, off riding, I believe. He appeared to be fleeing as if his life depended on it.” She looked closely at Lenora. “Did something happen between the two of you last night after we all retired?”
“No!” Heat filled Lenora’s face. She prayed Margery would attribute it to horror over the suggestion and not the true cause. “Why would you think such a thing?”
“I worry about you. Coming here hasn’t been easy on you.” She chewed on her lip, looking out over the churning sea below. Her body was tense where it met Lenora’s, almost thrumming with agitation. “It was a mistake to come here. I shouldn’t have suggested it. If I hadn’t overimbibed on champagne, I wouldn’t have even considered it.”
Margery, usually so placid, so calm, was quickly working herself into a furor. Lenora placed an arm about her friend’s waist, giving her a comforting squeeze. “You silly thing. There’s nothing to regret. And you were not the only one in her cups that day.”
“But I should have had the clearer head. You’ve spent years avoiding any mention of Hillram. Then to go to the one place you can’t help but think of him? And it’s all my doing.” She made an agitated sound in her throat. “And now this thing with Mr. Ashford. What if facing your memories of Hillram has left your heart open? I would be happy for you if you fell in love with someone, of course. There’s nothing I want more than your happiness. But Mr. Ashford doesn’t mean to stay. And if you fall in love with him, and he leaves at the end of his month, it will break your heart.” She looked at Lenora then, her eyes brimming with misery. “You’ve suffered so much already. I’ll never forgive myself if that happens.”
Lenora was silent, stunned, Margery’s fears so closely mirroring her own. And if Margery had so quickly seen inside her heart, then Lenora was beyond being in mere danger from Peter.
She was already in love with him, completely and totally.
As if a veil had been lifted from her eyes, she saw the truth in all its clarity. And she wondered how she had ever fooled herself into thinking she could prevent it. The future stretched out before her then, colorless and bleak. But though she might not be able to escape it, she refused to allow Margery a minute of guilt over it.
Knowing she wouldn’t be able to hide the truth from her friend, she rested her cheek against Margery’s shoulder, the better to avoid her anxious gaze. “Have no fear on that score,” she murmured. “For my heart is no way in danger.” And as she looked out on the landscape with weary eyes, she prayed for forgiveness for lying—once more—to someone who loved her so well. Though it seemed divine grace had been lost to her long ago.