The hurt in his eyes was a dagger that skewered her innards again and again. She had to remain resolute.
“At least, not yet,” she added, almost wincing at how calculating it sounded, when she felt anything but.
“Not yet? What does that mean?” Matthew flung himself back in the seat.
“It means . . . well, it means not yet. Do you understand?”
“No, not really.” He picked up the glass of wine and drained it.
Rosamund supposed that at this point many men would stride off in a huff, vowing never to see the woman again. But not this man. Not Matthew. He would stay, understand too, if he could.
Aye, he was a man worthy of her love. So why was she rejecting it?
She wasn’t. She was simply asking for an adjournment. “If you could see it in your heart to ask me again sometime in the future, that is, if you don’t meet anyone else worthy of your affection in the meantime . . .” The idea he might was a sword in her ribs. “Then I would indeed agree to be your wife.”
“You would?”
She nodded.
“May I ask why not now?” he asked.
Rosamund sighed. “Of course, though I’m not sure I can explain it sufficiently—even to myself.” She opened her hands, stared at the palms as if they were pages containing the words she needed. “I simply need time to be me. To not be beholden to anyone—not even you. No, especially not you. I want to enjoy my hard-won liberty, for which I know you’re partly responsible. Does that make sense?”
Matthew nodded slowly, considering. He unhurriedly poured himself another drink. “Do you have any idea how much time you might require?”
Rosamund buried a smile. “I’m afraid not. But if you could be patient, I would be very grateful.”
“Ah, madam.” He sighed, putting the decanter down carefully. “You have been so patient with me and I didn’t do you the courtesy of asking first.” He rested his head on the back of the seat and began to chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Never before have I been given such a rejection.”
Rosamund arched a brow. “I see. You make a habit of asking women to be your wife?”
He ceased to laugh. “No. I do not. As you well know, there has been one other, and that didn’t go well.”
Rosamund could’ve kicked herself for being so tactless. “Forgive me, Matthew. I . . . I—”
“Forgive you? Pray, what for? For not deceiving me? For not leading me on with falsehoods and duplicity? Madam”—he reclaimed her hands and held them as one might a fragile butterfly—“your honesty both refreshes and pains me. It assures me I have given my heart well and that yours is more than worth waiting for . . . Lest my intentions not be clear, I want you to know, I love you, Rosamund.”
Their eyes locked. The moon waxed and waned for eons as they made unspoken promises, quenched their desires in a chaste silence.
Letting her go reluctantly, Matthew slid out of the booth, picked up his glass and held it out. When she had gathered her own, he tapped his against hers—crystal lips sharing the kiss they denied themselves.
“Here’s to the future. Our future—whatever form it may take.”
“Ours,” said Rosamund and drank.
She set down her glass and turned to thank him, but before she could utter a word, he leaned toward her and drew her into his arms.
The embers of her passion, burning steadily since she had sat down, leaped to sear her insides; armies of tiny sparks scattered over her body, igniting little fires.
His mouth descended toward hers, and a groan that was matched by her breathless one escaped him before, placing her hands against his chest, she prevented him from coming any closer.
“I cannot, Matthew. As much as I want to, I must not . . . not yet. I’m . . . I’m afraid, if I do, I won’t be able to stop.”
Tilting his head until his forehead rested against hers, he sighed. “On that score, you’re not alone.”
She forgot to breathe.
Cradling his cheek with her palm, she leaned back in his arms and gazed into his eyes. “Thank you.”
Releasing her, he took her hand from his face, planted a long kiss upon it. “You’re a cruel mistress, Lady Harridan, but you are my cruel mistress. Don’t forget that.”
Unable to speak, she shook her head.
Bowing to her, then Bianca, who was pretending not to watch, and touching his hat to Mr. Nick, he left.
Rosamund fell back into her seat. Dear God, but that had been difficult. Her senses reeled, unable to settle as ribbons of pleasure traveled along her veins. And what was that delicious, hot nudging in her lower regions? Placing a hand over her stomach, she pressed. Dear God, there was a thirst she needed to quench.
Laughter began to build within her—a joyous, unforced, uninvited release. Leaving the confines of the booth, she began to twirl about the room, exchanging smiles and laughs with Bianca, with Mr. Nick—who pulled his pipe from his mouth and gave a crooked grin. When Grace came out to see what all the fuss was about, Rosamund swung her around, the little bouquet of flowers Grace had taken to pinning to her neckline scattering petals about the floor. Dancing now, with a smile, Rosamund invited Filip and the boys to join her, and together they clapped, stomped and laughed with abandon. Not once did she strike a table or bench, but magically avoided contact with anything but her wild and naughty imagination and her full but tortured heart.