Part 18 (1/2)

His fingers slid down her small neck, brus.h.i.+ng her collarbone, over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to her waist. He hugged her tightly, pulling her up, pressing down on her mouth. She surrendered easily, letting him inside.

He gently showed her how to explore him with her tongue. Like this and this... Like this and this...

She followed his lead, her arms tightening around his neck.

A warm tear rolled into his mouth-she was crying. Kesseley's heart melted. Every flimsy wall he'd built between them in the last days came cras.h.i.+ng down.

”Tell me you love me,” he whispered, then kissed her chin, her jaw, her neck. ”Tell me you feel something.”

Henrietta froze. The truth sang inside her. She shook her head, resisting it.

I love Kesseley? It can't be!

She yanked herself free, stumbling backward against the wall. The world swirled about her. Kesseley, all along it was Kesseley. The country b.u.mpkin who never wanted to leave his small village, his fields, his livestock. Who probably never once opened a book of poetry or dreamed about moonlight reflected on the gentle waves of the Seine. Who thought the paintings of chickens and dogs in his parlor were masterpieces.

This can't be right!

But her body, separated from his, ached with cold and longing, where a moment before she had been warm, full...

Complete.

He reached for her, ran his thumb rea.s.suringly over her knuckles. ”Come,” he whispered.

”No! No, I c-can't!”

”Hush, come back to me.”

”No.” She kept her back to the wall. Edward's handsome face flashed through her mind. He was the man she had wanted, or had until this morning. Or perhaps never had. She didn't know anymore. She didn't know anything. She needed time to think.

Yet her body surged recklessly on. Her most feminine part throbbed with some wanton desire to feel him inside her.

”But you weren't the one I wanted!” she cried.

Oh G.o.d, did I say that aloud?

The hallway became heavy and chilly, as if the frigid waters of the North Atlantic flowed between them.

”I'm so sorry,” she said, reaching into the darkness, ”I didn't mean-”

”Don't say anything else,” Kesseley warned, his deep voice harder and colder than she had ever imagined it could be. ”I've had enough. I want you to stay the h.e.l.l away from me.”

Even through the blur of emotions and thoughts whirling inside her, she knew she didn't want this.

”No! I-”

The slam of his door reverberated like a gunshot.

It seemed like her body stopped working. She wasn't sure how she got back to her chamber. But once inside, her legs gave way and she fell on the floor. What had she done?

Go back to him, that little voice pleaded. that little voice pleaded. Go back and let him take you to his heart. Go, before everything is lost. Go back and let him take you to his heart. Go, before everything is lost.

In those seconds, Henrietta knew forever waited in balance. It was all so fast that she couldn't think.

Was this it? Was this love? This terrifying feeling engulfing her? Surely not.

Could she be happy in Wrenthorpe? Discussing crops and parasites, having the parson for dinner, those countless stained green coats of Kesseley's, waiting upon the mail like some rescue boat from the world. Everything so familiar it wore like a rut in her heart. No mystery, no wonder.

Except one.

What waited in Kesseley's arms in that large mahogany bed? She could almost feel his weight upon her, like a blanket smothering out everything but the feel of his lips running under her jaw, his strong rough hands gentle upon her. Could this be enough to keep her at Wrenthorpe, not make her gaze at the stars wondering how she could be content with so little when the world was so large?

But what was the world? London? It only disappointed her. Was there only more disappointment out there? Where was the world? Seven continents and seven seas or his lips caressing hers?

The philosopher and lover fought mercilessly for hours, until sleep finally came, hus.h.i.+ng the thoughts racing through her mind and laying a soothing hand upon her sore, embattled heart.

Chapter Fourteen.

Kesseley slammed the door behind him. He sank into his desk chair and hung his head in his hands.

Before him was his ledger of estate business and miscellaneous correspondences, all neat nice rectangles, precisely folded paper, pens lined in the inkwell.

In a smooth motion, he shoved it all into the air. Papers and books fell like flapping bird wings. The notes she had written him, the cutouts of hats and cravats, her scrawl mingling with his neat hand and straight columns. One by one, he gathered them and threw them on the coals, watching them burn. When smoke began to fill the room, he just opened the windows and kept going, crazy to eradicate every evidence of her from his room, from his life. The last item, the cloth-bound diary she had given him to tell her about London and his future wife. For a moment, he considered keeping it, indeed writing all the details of his wife and giving it to Henrietta as a mean and spiteful gift. But he tossed it too. He just couldn't care anymore.

All that was left was his, scattered about the floor. He moved the papers with his foot until he uncovered Volume III of The Mysterious Lord Blackraven. The Mysterious Lord Blackraven. He picked it up and returned to his desk to read. He had only a few pages until the end and a whole night to fill, desperate to keep his mind from wandering back into the hall, reliving the scene over and over. When he had finished, he began again at the beginning. Reading word for word, focusing so hard his eyes hurt. He picked it up and returned to his desk to read. He had only a few pages until the end and a whole night to fill, desperate to keep his mind from wandering back into the hall, reliving the scene over and over. When he had finished, he began again at the beginning. Reading word for word, focusing so hard his eyes hurt.

At some time during the night, Kesseley must have fallen asleep at his desk, for Baggot awoke him at some merciless morning hour holding his stained, limp clothes on his arm. Kesseley rubbed his face. A slanting indentation ran across his forehead where he had rested on the book's edge. He had fallen asleep on page one hundred and sixty-seven.

Baggot, being rather unsteady in his older age, looked at the papers and ledgers strewn about the floor and walked over them.

”Now look, a nice yeller jacket,” he said, holding up a green coat.

Kesseley shot up, unable to bear one more second of this charade. ”For G.o.d sakes, man, it's green! Green! Not yellow!”

”That coat's as yeller-”

”-as the day you were born, yes, I know,” Kesseley finished. ”I've had enough. My new valet is arriving today with my new clothes. You will make him feel welcome.”

Baggot's big trembling lip started to droop down, getting ready for a good, guilt-inflicting pout.

But Kesseley had no more patience. ”Do as I say or find employment elsewhere.”

Henrietta stayed in her chamber long after she had dressed, sitting on the carpet, wrapped in a shawl in front of the coals, warming her feet. Her heart felt battered. She couldn't see Kesseley just yet. Everything was too raw and sore. She needed to think, calm herself, return to rational thought.

She heard his door close and the echo of his gait coming down the hall. She stopped breathing. Would he stop? Would he knock at her door? Would he ask her to talk?