He didn’t say anything. In two strides he’d ranged alongside her, keeping pace easily.
She felt his gaze on her face, but kept her eyes fixed ahead. Head up, she marched on.
They rounded the church and reached a more frequented thoroughfare. Barnaby hailed a hackney. He opened the door and she climbed in without taking his hand.
He followed her inside and shut the door.
Somewhat to her surprise, to her increasing consternation, he slumped on the seat beside her, with enough space between them that she didn’t feel crowded. Propping an elbow on the carriage windowsill, he stared out at the passing houses, keeping his thoughts to himself.
Leaving her to hers.
9
He’d parted from her on the steps in Mount Street with what Penelope had interpreted—correctly she was sure—as a warning, in the guise of a promise to meet with her that evening.
Throughout the journey from St. John’s Wood, they’d exchanged not a word—not a single observation on that kiss, let alone on what it had revealed.
But they’d thought of it.
In her case, she’d thought of nothing else.
Consequently, here she was, skirting Lady Carlyle’s drawing room, loins girded, determination whipped high and bolstered, waiting for him to appear so she could inform him just where she stood on the matter, and how they were going to proceed henceforth.
She wasn’t, definitely wasn’t, going to indulge in another such kiss.
Regardless of any arguments to the contrary—from either him or her own wretched curiosity—she was adamant, resolved beyond shifting, that she was not going to risk any closer acquaintance with that inner self the kiss had revealed.
While the engagement had demonstrated his interest—his intent—the reality of his motive that she’d transparently severely misjudged more than adequately for her to accept it as real, the aspect of herself that the kiss had exposed was far more disturbing.
Far more alarming.
She’d never known, had never guessed, that beneath her practical and prosaic exterior she harbored a panoply of feminine needs that had, it appeared, lain dormant—until he’d kissed her. Until he’d hauled her into his arms and shown her senses what might be—and simultaneously awoken those latent needs.
They’d risen in response to him, stretched and unfurled, fed on the sensations he’d evoked. He and only him. No other man had affected her in the slightest, yet with Adair she’d sensed the connection from the first—from the instant she’d walked into the lion’s den and asked for his help.
If she indulged any further with Barnaby Adair she was perfectly sure those newly awakened needs would become a permanent and potent reality; she knew herself well enough to acknowledge that she never did anything by halves. Those needs would grow and gain a hold on her, one she would have to face and deal with.
And that was a path she wasn’t prepared to tread.
Although her habitual drive to know, to learn and understand, remained strong, propelling her forward, in this case it was countered by a consideration powerful enough, disconcerting enough, to make her step back.
To make her accept that there were some things she didn’t need to know, where the potential gain wasn’t worth the likely price.
She could only explore that inner self and her needs with Barnaby Adair, and she knew what sort of man he was. If she attempted to learn more with him, she might well have to sacrifice something she never could. Her independence. Her free will. The freedom to run her own life.
That was one thing she would never risk, not even put at risk. It wasn’t something with which she was willing to gamble.
Courtesy of her peripatetic progress, she’d managed to avoid those among her would-be suitors her ladyship had invited. When she saw Adair’s guinea-bright head enter the room, she muttered, “At last,” and, deftly avoiding Harlan Rigby’s eye, made her way to one corner of the room.
Reaching her goal, she waited for Adair to join her.
He didn’t keep her waiting; with what most ladies would no doubt have viewed as flattering speed, he threaded through the guests toward her.
Deciding she didn’t need to notice let alone acknowledge the focused intent in his eyes, she nodded in brisk greeting when he halted before her. “I have something I wish to say to you. There’s a parlor through there”—with a wave she indicated the archway nearby—“where we can talk in private.”
So saying she swung around and swept through the archway.
After a fractional hesitation, and a swift glance around the room, Barnaby followed—as ever at her heels.
