Silverton shifted his mouth to pepper her lips with feather-like kisses before switching to her jawline, then lowering his mouth to her neck. The carriage rocked, and with her mouth free, Maeve let out a heartfelt sigh. She wanted more of this, and her hands itched to explore him too, but with his hands touching her like that, she could barely concentrate.
Letting out an annoyed noise, Silverton lifted and shifted her so that Maeve was flat on her back, lying down on the carriage squab. He looked at her for a moment before leaning over her, his hand cupping her cheek.
All of it was so soft, so easy, and so seductive that Maeve wanted to scream out and beg Silverton to move with a ferocity that might answer the desirous siren building inside her.
The rocking movement of the carriage proved no hindrance as Silverton lowered himself slowly over Maeve’s eager body. The dark interior of the carriage seemed to embolden her, lighting within her the sort of flames she had never experienced before.
Unable to stay still, Maeve lifted her hands and slid them over his shoulders and across his broad chest. She could feel the silk of his shirt, the cotton of his waistcoat and, beneath that, the heat and hardness of his body. It was intoxicating. It certainly had not been like anything she’d read, nor anything her giggling peers had described a decade ago. It was better. With tentative touches but a growing bravery, Maeve lifted and slid her hand through Silverton’s curls. His hair was thick and ever so soft to her fingertips, and when her nails tightened on his scalp, she felt his immediate reaction. His body started and then she felt him smile against her lips.
One of his clever hands had moved between their bodies and to the front of her bodice. The pads of his thumb swayed over the small lace edgings of her dress, and Maeve knew if his lips had not been sealed over hers that she would have told him to rip at the material. Beneath the rough cotton of her dress, her skin was awake and curious, and she wanted more than she ever thought possible to know what his palms, his touch, his mouth would feel like on her skin.
The carriage, even the very seat she rested against, which Maeve had almost entirely forgotten about, suddenly halted. The breaking movement jerked them both forward and left them sprawled in an inelegant heap on the ground, with Maeve’s face resting on the carpeted rug and the viscount just a foot away. Even from this embarrassing viewpoint, she could make out the shocked expression on Silverton’s face.
From outside the carriage window, there was a warm, yellow light, and Maeve could hear the happy noise of folk talking away to each other. It was clear that Fischer had found an inn.
“That blasted brick.” Silverton’s tone was so dry, it could have drained a river.
Maeve studied at the equally tumbled and floored Silverton. He looked so different from the wild man she’d encountered earlier. The viscount who demanded that she marry him immediately. The gentleman who had seemed so calm when discussing his family’s heart-breaking trauma. Now despite his full thick beard, he looked like a little boy who had been deprived of a sweet. There was such a look of outraged shock on his face.
A vivid image played through Maeve’s mind of what their planned-for son would look like—he would have Silverton’s set jaw, a similar ghost of a smile and, she hoped, the occasional stubborn frown. It was easy to picture the rounded face of their child, and it moved a part of her heart that Maeve had not even realised she’d been ignoring for years.
Unable to help herself, and whether it was from the image of what her future might hold or the present disgruntled sight before her, Maeve started to laugh. Tears gathered in her eyes as she looked at Silverton, who had been attempting to right himself.
“Yes, yes, very funny.” He was getting to his feet as he straightened his clothes, while she was too busy laughing to ease herself into a standing position. Now she was settled on the ground, the humour reverberating through her body, and the tension from the start of the day was ebbing away. It was a relief to allow herself to break the pressure.
Bending, Silverton lifted her up, his arms winding around her waist as he helped her into a standing position. Maeve’s giggles subsided, now that she was once more in his arms. His face was in shadow, barely anything visible as she stared up at him, the laughter dying as she felt his fingers tighten on her arms.
“You like to laugh.”
There was such a judgemental note in his tone that Maeve could tell Silverton meant to chastise her. It was clear he had no time for such things. Defiantly lifting her chin, Maeve would not allow herself to be cowed. He was right. She loved to laugh; she would continue to enjoy it, finding the golden happy moments whenever she could—defying whatever life might throw at her. Despite it all.
“Yes.” She detached herself from him and sank into the seat. She looked up at him as he moved to the opposite squab and watched his expression closely, noting the way his face changed, how he tried to hide his reactions. At first, she wondered if this response was merely a reaction to herself and because she was a relative stranger. But as the carriage door opened, she saw him react to Fischer. There it was, a tension in Silverton’s body and movements. She was learning how he moved, and perhaps one day, she would understand why he was so tense and untrusting.
He accepted the brick from Fischer and wrapped it in a small blanket before dropping onto his knees, slotting it under Maeve’s feet on the carriage floor. As he readjusted her skirts around the brick and moved away, his eyes locked with hers. “You are watching me, madam.”
The hardness in his voice that Maeve’s shoulders carried her backwards into the cushions. The carriage took off. She swallowed and clung to the taste and feel of his lips against her mouth. Surely a man who kissed her like that, with such finery and passion, could not be such a cold fish as soon as they were a few feet apart. The heat of the brick radiated up through her legs, warming her delightfully, and he had taken the time and care to arrange it. Surely, that had to mean something, didn’t it?
Yet he maintained the separation between the two of them.
Folding her hands demurely in her lap, Maeve adopted her best school-ma’am persona. After all if he could play being cold, so could she—but it was not the most natural mode for her, and she hoped that he would soon relax. “I am trying my best to know you better, my lord.”
“That is not necessary.”
“You wish to remain a mystery?” Unable to resist, Maeve took on a teasing tone. If he wanted to wed her, a fair amount of honesty would be necessary. Surely, Silverton could see that? She was about to voice just such a thought when the viscount lifted his hand to cut her off.
“There must remain a distance between us. I have business which it would be unwise for you to know too much about. Besides, I do not need a companion—”
“Just a brood mare?” Maeve asked. The kiss between the two of them had been so pleasing to her. Now it felt dirty, as if she were being used.
But Silverton did not seem to notice or care. “Our marriage is a business arrangement, and that should be our focus. My life is built around keeping everything as practical as it can be.”
“It was you who proposed to me, my lord,” Maeve said eventually. All the humour and happiness she felt when they kissed, even when they’d landed on the carriage floor, was vanishing with his cold words. She felt she was nothing more than a means to an end. Maeve had gone through her life with the unshakable belief that, whilst the hand she had been dealt had not always been perfect, it was her role to make things more bearable. To find happiness and joy where she could. And now he wanted to reduce these expectations because of his job?
“When you proposed to me, it was surely with the understanding that I would not be quite like the other ladies of your acquaintance. Presumably because you did not want any of the normal gentlewomen of theton. If you had, you would have proposed to one of them. If your preference is for someone like that, perhaps you had better return me to my father. And my old life.”
“You accepted my offer.”
“I said yes to possibly the strangest agreement conceivable, and I will honour it. But I will not be dismissed or treated with less respect than I deserve. Or demand.”
