But then he took over, knowing somehow that she wanted this but needed him to guide her. Was he like this with everyone? Knowing what they needed, giving it.
He pulled her closer, so close, too close, her breasts pressed against his hard chest. He cupped her face with both hands, now, a chaste embrace that flamed higher as he speared his fingers into her hair, his lips moving over hers, slanting, seeking. Teaching. How did he know her so well? Even if everyone in the entire world got her wrong, he never would.
She melted into him, gave herself up to him. Her hands wrapped around his neck like they were meant to be there, and each sip he took from her lips was soft and hot, too short and lasting forever. A symphony of contradictions in the way she fit against him, lean hip to ample hip and heart to frantic heart.
Perfect yet painful.
Sweet yet sinful.
Fated.
Yet impossible.
He gentled the kiss, sipping from her bottom lip and leaning back against the tree trunk, pulling her with him so she rested against him. Were his legs as wobbly as hers, as ready to seek a supine position? He set his forehead against hers and held her tight, arms hugging around her when he knew they should not.
“I should not have,” he said. “I should not have done it. To paw at you when you tell me… that. It is not gentlemanly.”
She cupped his cheek. “You did not do it, Your Grace. I did. Just this once. A thank you for your gift.”
“I’ve never been one to reject a gift.” His hold on her tightened, his voice rough as tree bark. “You will not let one mistake define you. Do you understand?”
He meant Parkington. That mistake was defining her. She could not stop it from defining her. Yet when he demandedshe rail against it, it felt like she might win. No, it felt like unquestionable victory.
It felt like she wanted to kiss him again. She grinned.
“If you do,” he said, “I’ll kiss you again. Or I’ll gift you something else, so you kiss me.”
“The horror.”
“Hell, Emma, I want to kiss you now.”
“Me, too.”
“We can’t.”
“I know.”
Inch by excruciating inch, he drew away from her until he touched only her elbows once more. Then he spun her, placing her back against the tree and retreating toward the ends of its branches, arms folded at his back. To keep from reaching for her?
Outside of the tree’s perimeter, he paced. “You have an undeserved crack in your reputation, and I will not add to it. Not here, where you’re safe from it. I’ll do better.”
Was he allowed to make mistakes?
She left the tree trunk, drawn to him against her better judgment. When she stood within reach, she stopped, and he stopped his pacing, looking anywhere but at her.
“Perhaps,” she said, “I deserve that reputation. Kissing you when you and Lady Huxley—”
“No. No. This all falls on me. And I will fix it. No more meetings. Not tomorrow, not ever. Unless others are around.”
“Aunt Millicent?”
“I need a new chaperone.” He cleared his throat. “Send me a letter. Weekly. And I will read about your progress and respond if necessary.”
“Very well.”
“You must go home. Let me escort you.”
“You just said—”
