Hermione smiled sleepily; she’d already smothered a yawn or two. Uncurling her legs, she stood. “Good night, L’titia. ’Night, Christian.” Then she focused on Christian.
“Or should I call you Dearne?”
He smiled. “Christian will do.” Hermione might be bidding fair to becoming an unconscionable minx, but she’d always been on his side.
Given the way Agnes was eyeing him-not openly censorious but prepared to be so-he’d need all the support he could get.
He half expected Agnes to ask when he was leaving; as he had no intention of doing so, that would have proved awkward, but just as he was bracing for some such pointed query, she humphed and nodded a good-night. “I’ll no doubt see you in the morning, Dearne-at the reading of the will.”
If he had his way, she’d see him at the breakfast table, but that might be pushing the boundaries too far. He bowed and murmured his good-nights.
Once Agnes and Hermione had left and the door was closed once more, he sat again, relaxed once more beside Letitia.
She was staring into space again, brooding. He studied her face, considered what he could see in it, heard again the subtle warning in Agnes’s tone. Despite her eccentric, old lady ways, Letitia’s aunt was neither blind nor slow. She knew what he wanted, and didn’t disapprove-just as long as he did right by Letitia.
This time.
Agnes, he realized, scanning his recent memories of her-of when he’d seen her, always with Letitia there with them-felt strongly protective toward her niece. Which seemed odd. He wouldn’t have thought Letitia needed protecting…
The knowledge came to him in a wave, simply washed over and through him-and he saw what he should have from the first. Something that explained her odd attack of nerves in the park that afternoon. Something that meant he would have to tread carefully-very carefully-if he wanted to reclaim her.
Agnes was right. Letitia was vulnerable-horribly, critically, emotionally vulnerable. Over him. Because of him.
He’d hurt her badly once, unintentionally perhaps, but that hadn’t made the hurt any less.
Now he was back, he could hurt her again-that was what lay behind Agnes’s warning.
He wasn’t above taking an eccentric old lady’s warning to heart.
Especially as it suggested Letitia still felt for him all she ever had.
He glanced at her, and this time understood the responsibility he hadn’t recognized all those years ago. When he’d gone off to war, gone off to play spies, and had left her to fend on her own.
Guilt tightened his chest, but guilt wouldn’t help either of them.
He was waiting, watching her, when eventually she turned her head and looked at him. Searched his face, then arched her brows.
Her message was clear: While she wouldn’t summon Mellon and have him shown out, neither would she make the first move.
Before, long ago, she almost always had.
But now, if he wanted her, he had to ask. He had to make his desire plain, lay it out, no veils, no screens, before her.
And pray she would welcome it.
Raising a brow in reply, he reached for her hand.
Got to his feet and drew her to hers, waited while she slid her feet into her slippers. If he kissed her on the sofa, they might never leave it. And Mellon would still be about.
When she straightened, he brought her hand to his lips. His eyes locked on hers, he kissed her fingertips, then turned her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. Let them linger just long enough for her to feel their heat, then he lifted his head. With his hold on her hand, he tugged gently, drew her a step closer, then, still holding her captive with his eyes, bent his head and pressed his lips to her wrist.
To her leaping pulse.
Letitia tried to keep her mental distance, knew she should, but she was already enthralled. By the warmth in his gray eyes, by the banked fire behind them. By the touch of his lips on her sensitive skin, commanding yet not demanding, luring rather than seducing.
Before, she’d always been so eager-so damnably impatient that he’d never had to work. Never had to tempt her.
His lips moved over her skin, hot with promise but gently, until an equally gentle flush rose under it, and beckoned him further.
Lifting his head just a little, he drew her closer still, let her hand fall to his shoulder as his arm slid around her and he drew her, still gently, in. Against him, but she wasn’t trapped. Wasn’t crushed. He bent his head again-stopped just before their lips met. Waited a heartbeat so she could sense his hunger-and hers-then he closed the gap and fed her.
Soft kisses. Like gentle rain on parched ground they made her bloom-coaxed her senses to slowly unfurl. Teased her nerves with the promise of paradise until she parted her lips on a sigh.
He didn’t enter, instead drew back. Whispered across her lips. “I want you, and you want me. For tonight, let that be enough.”
She blinked up at him, wondering, knowing he wanted much more. “But will that be enough?”
The words drifted from her lips to his.
He kissed her again, a tantalizing touch.
And didn’t answer.
Instead, he murmured, his voice deep and low, “Invite me to your bed. Let me come to you there. Let me lie with you there…and let what will be, be.”
That, she could agree to without reservation. What would be would be regardless.
Her eyes on his, she drew back. Caught his hand as she did, then stepped back, turned and led him from the room.
Led him up the stairs to her bedchamber, waited while he shut the door, then led him to the end of her bed.
Turning to him, she waited. In the flickering light of the candle Esme had left on her dressing table, she met his eyes. Felt rather than saw the desire in the gray-for once took the time to savor it.
His thumb moved over her fingers, stroking, then he released her hand, stepped closer. Raising both hands, he framed her face, tipped it up to his. Looked down for one long moment, searching her eyes, then he bent his head and kissed her.
Longingly.
Hungrily, yet his hunger was reined. Greedily, letting her taste his wanting, yet holding back, not taking.
She wouldn’t have stopped him if he had, yet this time she was content to follow. To let him show her what he wished.
To let him deepen the kiss degree by degree, until a tide of response, of a longing to match his, rose up and swamped her. Swept away both restraint and thought. Left only sensation and feeling to cling to.
She clung, and her soul rejoiced.
Christian held to the slow pace, to the slow steady beat of his drum, held her to that so he had a chance to show her the other side of passion’s coin.
So he could weave what he felt for her into each caress, invest each slow kiss with his need of her. Let her taste his desire on his lips, on his tongue, let her feel it in the slow, steady claiming.
She grew restless, reached for him. Releasing her face, he caught her hands, stepped into her as he eased her arms behind her. Anchoring both her wrists in one hand, he trapped them at the back of her waist, holding her within that arm.
With his free hand he trapped her jaw, angled her face so he could continue the kiss-draw it out until she was breathless. Then he shifted his lips to her temple, cruised over her ear and down to press a hot caress in the sensitive hollow beneath.
She murmured, and tried to shift into him. He held her back, kept at least an inch between their bodies. “Not yet,” he murmured, and ducked his head, tipping her jaw so he could trace the long, arching line of her throat with his lips. She shuddered beneath the caress, and grew less rigid. More pliant. Willing to cede him the moment, to see what he wished to give her.
He pressed his lips to the pulse point at the base of her throat, felt more of her impatience fall away. Breathing in, he drew the scent of jasmine into his lungs, held it there, close to his heart.