Had she said that out loud? Or had he felt her heart racing, heard her tortured breath? “Pardon?”
“You said it about the book.”
Ah, of course. She’d said it aboutHonorine.
“I meant only a desire for something that you’d move heaven and earth to have, only to discover they can’t be moved. It would make one frantic.”
He stopped kneading the dough but kept his hands on hers. “Have you ever felt a desire so desperate?”
She immediately thought of Rupert. That had been another kind of desire. That had been a desire for respectability. For a life outside her family. But it had not beendesperatedesire—it had not made her ache with longing.
“I don’t think so.” She drew a breath. “Have you?”
“Until this moment,” he said, his breath warm on her neck, “I have never wanted for anything.”
Her breath deserted her. She turned her head slightly, to see him, but he was behind her, and she couldn’t see his face. But she could feel him, hard against her back, his chest broad, his body lean, his arms pure strength. She flushed from the feel of him, from the desire that was surging through her, turning desperate. From the magnetism of this beautiful man that was making her forget her own name.
She turned so that she was facing him, still trapped between his arms and the table. She couldn’t look away from his hazel eyes—she was mesmerized. She couldn’t stop her mind from racing, couldn’t stop her heart from urging her to live life, to experience it.
His gaze moved down her face, to her mouth, to her bodice. She felt something stirring in her, and it felt like...love. She was falling in love with the viscount. “Until this moment, neither have I.”
His gaze turned smoldering. He reached up and touched a stubborn tendril of her hair that always worked its way free of her coif and tucked it behind her ear. Hattie still couldn’t seem to find her breath. With his knuckle, he traced her jaw, then touched the tip of his finger to her bottom lip. It had come to this—in what felt like a fleeting moment, she’d gone from scribe to this, and she looked at his mouth, at his plush, full lips, and she’d never wanted to be kissed so badly in her life. “My lord—”
“Teo,”he said, and lowered his head to hers.
Oh, but he kissed her. Not chastely, not in a way that could confuse a woman as to his intent. It was a real kiss, one that was full of a man’s desire, full of an understanding that they both wanted this to happen. His lips were succulent, the tip of his tongue playful. His teeth grazed her bottom lip, his lips moved against hers. He cupped her face, angling it just so, and just when she thought she could bear it no longer...she could feel the heat of his body, felt as if she ought to rip her gown apart for air as he leaned against her, his body hard and lean and pulsing.
He kissed her and she kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing back against him. She felt fluid, molding to him everyplace they touched.
But then he lifted his head. A lock of hair had fallen over one of his eyes, his gaze full of want. But he pushed back from the table.
“That was badly done,” he said. “I should not have taken such liberty.”
She couldn’t do anything but stare at the very handsome face that had just kissed her.
“I do beg your pardon.”
“Please don’t.”
He wiped his hand on his apron and pushed the tendril of hair behind his ear. “I lost myself in a moment, and that is unfair to you.”
“What? Why?” How could it be unfair? Before there was ever a Rupert, Hattie would have demurred, would have allowed him to have the last say. But she wasn’t that person any longer. “I disagree.”
Teo looked at her with such sorrow. In that look he conveyed it all—she was beneath him, she could never be his. She was an employee that he’d dallied with and now he regretted it. She felt indignant. And hurt. She would not be another man’s regret.
Hattie picked up a towel and wiped her hands. She walked around the table to the hearth and picked up her cloak, aware that he was watching her. She donned her cloak and pulled the hood over her head.
“Hattie...you’re leaving?”
“I am,” she said. She felt calm. Unnaturally calm.
“I’ll have someone drive you—”
“I prefer to walk.” She didn’t sound angry, she hoped. She wasn’t angry, precisely. She was frustrated. Not by him—well, a little by him—but really, the rules of society. He was doing what a gentleman ought to do—extracting himself from a situation that had no end. Apologizing for acting on his desires.
She braced her hand against the kitchen table across from him, wanting to convey her frustration but feeling out of place. She drew a breath. “A kiss can only be unfair if just one party wanted it. But when two people are both lost in a moment and desire it, I don’t see how it can be viewed as anything but fair.”
“By virtue of my position in this house. In life,” he said earnestly. “I took unfair advantage of you, Hattie. You must see that. Please accept my apology.”
