“Sorry,” she apologized at once. “But how did you know they’re mine?”
He turned one bundle over so that she could read the address written on the back of the bottom envelope. “I don’t think he knew two girls at Forsyte Academy, do you?”
“He kept my letters.” She looked at the chest, then back at the bundle in her hands. “It looks like he kept them all.”
“Not only that. He stored them in a treasure chest, wrapped in silk.”
“But—” She broke off and looked at Jonathan again, clearly confounded. “Why would he do that?”
“Perhaps because, in his inadequate way, he loved you. Treasured you.”
She stared at him, shaking her head as if refusing to believe it. Suddenly, her hands fell to her sides, and the letters slid out of her fingers, hitting the carpet by her hip with a thud, and then she was crying, silently, tears sliding down her cheeks, and he couldn’t bear it.
“Don’t.” His voice was fierce to his own ears as he lifted his hand to cup her cheek. “Don’t cry.”
“I don’t know why I am,” she whispered.
He thought of his own lost dreams. “I do,” he murmured, his thumb brushing tears away.“Hiraeth.”
“What?” She frowned, puzzled by a word unfamiliar to her. “What’s that?”
“It means grief for that which is past and gone, or for things that never were, or homesickness for places that exist only in our imaginations.” He paused, aware of her warm skin beneath his fingertips and her silky, loosened braid against the back of his hand, dangerous fuel for the fire inside him.
“It’s a Welsh word,” he went on, feeling desperate, and yet unable to do the sensible thing and pull back. “I learned Welsh at school, along with Latin, Greek, and several other languages I’ll never use. That’s what preparatory school’s for, you know. Teaching well-bred men things of no practical value.”
She laughed, her smile like sunshine peeking between rain clouds. “Finishing school’s the same. We learned to waltz, write in perfect copperplate, and speak proper French.”
“French is at least useful if one goes abroad. Many speak it. Try talking to a Continental maître d’hôtel or waiter in Welsh and see how far you get.”
She laughed again, and so did he, but as their laughter faded, he felt the change between them—in the rising tension within his own body and the quickening of her pulse beneath his fingertips. He heard it—in the sudden silence between them and the hard thud of his own heartbeat. He saw it—in the parting of her lips and the lowering of her lashes.
Jonathan felt his resistance slipping. Desperate, he tried to remind himself she was in a vulnerable condition, and what he was thinking right now was the conduct of a cad, not a gentleman. He stared at the tears still damp on her cheeks and reminded himself of his promises and her innocence.
But then, she leaned closer, her quickened breathing soft and warm on his face, and he felt a crack in his resolve.
Don’t, he thought, desperate, uncertain if his unspoken warning was for her or for himself.Leave. Now.
Even as he gave that order, his fingers slid to the back of her neck, honor fading away, arousal flooding his body, longing for her tearing him apart. This time, he was the one who leaned closer, his thumb moving beneath her jaw to tilt her head back.
Slowly, he bent his head. His lips grazed hers, the barest touch, and yet, after weeks of torturing himself with memories of their previous kisses, the pleasure of this one was so exquisite, he groaned against her mouth.
The first time he kissed her, he’d known he was playing with fire. The second time, he’d lit the match and blown it out. But now, as her arms came around his neck, and her lips parted beneath his, the fire flared so high, he simply could not contain it.
He deepened the kiss instead, sliding his tongue into her mouth. She moaned in response, fanning the flame, her fingers raking through his hair, her mouth opening wider, her tongue meeting his.
He slid his arms around her and pulled her closer. She came with all the naïve willingness of her innocence, a reminder and a warning—one last chance to protect her virtue, but her mouth was so sweet, her body so warm and her kiss so lush, he couldn’t stop, not yet.
Keeping one arm tight around her waist, he slid his free hand up her spine, making a sound of pure masculine appreciation at the knowledge that a scant two layers of muslin stood between him and her naked skin. Still tasting deeply of her mouth, he slid his hand under her arm and between their bodies to cup her breast.
She broke the kiss with a gasp even as her body arched instinctively closer. “It’s all right,” he murmured, uttering that lie as his arm tightened around her waist and his other hand embraced the full, round shape of her breast.
She stirred, making a sound of agitation, and he stilled, his heart thudding in his chest, his body in chaos. But when she didn’t pull back, he began again, cupping and shaping her breast against his palm as he murmured words to coax and soothe, and his mouth trailed kisses along her cheek, over her jaw, and down the side of her neck, where the tendons of her throat were taut as harp strings.
Under his palm, he could feel the shape of her nipple, and he shifted his hand to roll the hard bud in a gentle tease between his fingers.
She moaned, her arms tightening around his neck, her hips stirring against him, reminding him he’d have to stop soon, but not just yet. Keeping one arm around her waist, he let go of her breast and pulled apart the edges of her wrapper.
“Jonathan?” she whispered.
