Besides, the only thing Mr. Bothwick had ever proven—besides his desire for her—was his utter untrustworthiness. Susan could not risk confiding her cousin’s plight to the man who was the best friend of Lady Emeline’s captor. Nor could she risk allowing him any more liberties than she already had.
No matter how much her traitorous body might wish to.
He appeared to be heading toward the main entrance. He paused, tilted his head, turned. Almost as if his legs began to carry him to her even before his mind was decided on the matter. He was within arm’s reach in moments.
In arm’s reach, but not touching her. Not even attempting to. He stood on the other side of the gate, close enough that if she unfurled her fingers from their death grip about the wrought iron, her fingertips would graze against his greatcoat. Even without touching, she could feel his heat. Her entire body warmed. Perhaps too much. She dared not allow her thoughts to show on her face.
Would he never speak?
Perhaps there were no words to be spoken. He had kissed her. She had liked it. That was dangerous enough. She had told him no more kissing. He had agreed. But her fingers gripped the gate because if they did not, they would be around his neck, in his hair, clutching him to her.
Judging by the coiled tension in his stance and the unhidden passion in his eyes, she had only to give the merest indication for him to vault the gate and destroy her with the intoxicating pleasure of forbidden kisses.
She hoped he could not read her internal battle in her eyes.
“I was coming to see you,” he said at last, softly, his eyes hooded.
Somehow, her fingers tightened around the gate. Her breath tangled in her throat before she managed, “Why? I thought we agreed we could not...”
He stepped closer, closed that final inch, such that her curved fingers were now trapped between the unyielding cold of the wrought iron and the simmering hardness of his body. Perhaps, like her, even that small distance between them had been impossible to bear.
He took a breath. “I’m leaving.”
She did not gasp or cry out or any other such ninnyhammered thing. Mostly because she could not process his meaning.
She blinked. Twice. “What?”
“Just for the weekend,” he corrected quickly. He stepped back and pulled open the gate.
The unexpected movement sent her pitching forward, right into his arms. Or perhaps the unexpected movement gave her the perfect excuse for allowing her body to tumble straight into his arms. Either way, Susan found his arms about her waist, hugging her close, while her own twined about his neck. At last.
He dipped his head. She turned away, and at the last second his kiss landed against the side of her face. Rather than recoil from this rebuff, he kept his mouth millimeters from her skin, his warm breath searing into her as he dragged his soft lips down to the line of her jaw, to the sensitive hollow beneath her ear.
“I said...” she breathed, then gave up. Even she could hear she didn’t mean it. “When will you be back?”
“Sunday.”
“Where are you going?”
He kept his mouth against her throat, intermingling his responses with kisses. “Can’t say.”
“May I ride in the carriage?”
“No carriage. Boat.” He bit the lobe of her ear. “And no. You can’t come.”
Boat? Surely he didn’t intend to take his little death trap for an extended trip in the ocean. “It’s not safe. If you—”
“Shhh.” He swallowed her concerns with a kiss.
And for a long, delicious, unguarded moment... she let him. She loved the feel of her body against his, of his arms holding her tight, of his mouth hard against hers, then teasing, playing.
Just as she was about to open up for him, to allow the kiss to become as wild and reckless as they both wanted, her rational mind gave its last plea for sense. She had goals. He was not part of them. If she kissed him, touched him, allowed this passion to burn any brighter, she would give lie not only to the words she spoke to him on the boat, but also to the promises she had made to herself.
She untwisted her arms from about his neck, pushed her flattened palms against his chest... and warred with her own desires during every second.
Confusion flashed in his eyes, then disappointment, then something more, something else, something she had no wish to analyze. Because he was loosening his embrace. Moving backward. Allowing her to go.
Had she thought breaking the kiss was the hardest thing she could do? More fool, her. Even without his arms around her, stepping away from his warmth, of his need—of her own need—was almost impossible.
