A Night Like This (10 page)

“I’m sorry?” Her eyes clouded with confusion. Confusion twinned with unease.

“As I wish,” he repeated. “That’s what you said.”

“Lord Winstead, I don’t think—”

He came to a halt three feet away from her. Beyond the length of his arms. He trusted himself, but not completely.

“You shouldn’t do this,” she whispered.

But he was too far gone. “I
wish
to kiss you. That is what I wanted you to know. Because if I’m not going to do it, and it appears that I am not, because it isn’t what you want, at least not right now . . . but if I’m not going to do it, you need to know that I wanted it.” He paused, staring at her mouth, at her lips, full and trembling. “I still want it.”

He heard a rush of air gasp across her lips, but when he looked into her eyes, their blue so midnight they might as well have been black, he knew that she wanted him. He had shocked her, that much was obvious, but still, she wanted him.

He wasn’t going to kiss her now; he had already realized it was not the right time. But he had to let her know. She had to
know
just what it was he wanted.

What she wanted, too, if only she alowed herself to see it.

“This kiss,” he said, his voice burning with tightly held desire. “This kiss . . . I wish for it with a fervor that shakes my soul. I have no idea why I wish it, only that I felt it the moment I saw you at the piano, and it has only intensified in the days since.” She swalowed, and the candlelight danced across her delicate neck. But she didn’t say anything. That was all right; he had not expected her to.

“I want the kiss,” he said huskily, “and then I want more. I want things you cannot even know about.” They stood in silence, eyes locked.

“But most of al,” he whispered, “I want to kiss you.”

And then, in a voice so soft it was barely more than breath, she said, “I want it, too.”
Chapter Nine

I
want it, too.

She was mad.

There could be no other explanation. She had spent the last two days teling herself all the reasons why she could not possibly alow herself to want this man, and now, at the first moment when they were truly alone and secluded, she said
that
?

Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, and she had no idea if it was from shock or because her fingertips had more sense than the rest of her and were trying to prevent her from making a huge, huge mistake.

“Anne,” he whispered, staring at her with searing intimacy.

Not Miss Wynter.
Anne
. He was taking liberties; she had not given him permission to use her given name. But she could not summon the outrage she knew she should feel. Because when he caled her Anne, it was the first time she felt as if the name was truly hers. For eight years she had caled herself Anne Wynter, but to the rest of the world she was always Miss Wynter. There had been no one in her life to call her Anne. Not a single person.

She wasn’t sure she’d even realized it until this very moment.

She’d always thought she wanted to be Annelise again, to return to a life where her biggest concern was which dress to wear each morning, but now, when she She’d always thought she wanted to be Annelise again, to return to a life where her biggest concern was which dress to wear each morning, but now, when she heard Lord Winstead whisper her name, she realized that she liked the woman she’d become. She might not have liked the events that had brought her to this point, or the still present fear that George Chervil might someday find her and try to destroy her, but she liked
herself
.

It was an amazing thought.

“Can you kiss me just once?” she whispered. Because she
did
want it. She wanted a taste of perfection, even if she knew she could pursue it no further. “Can you kiss me once, and then never do so again?”

His eyes clouded, and for a moment she thought he might not speak. He was holding himself so tightly that his jaw trembled, and the only noise was the labored sound of his breath.

Disappointment trickled through her. She didn’t know what she had been thinking, to ask such a thing. One kiss, and then nothing else? One kiss, when she, too, knew that she wanted so much more? She was—

“I don’t know,” he said abruptly.

Her eyes, which she had alowed to drift down to their feet, flew back to his face. He was still watching her with unwavering intensity, staring as if she might be his salvation. His face was not healed, with cuts and scrapes on his skin, and blue-black bruising around his eye, but in that moment he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

“I don’t think once will be enough,” he said.

His words were thriling. What woman wouldn’t want to be so desired? But the careful part of her, the sensible part, realized that she was treading down a dangerous path. She had done this once before, alowed herself to fall for a man who would never marry her. The only difference was that this time she understood this. Lord Winstead was an earl—recently disgraced, it was true—but still an earl, and with his looks and charm, society would soon reopen their arms.

And she was . . . what? A governess? A false governess whose life history began in 1816 when she’d stepped off the ferry, seasick and petrified, and placed her feet on the rocky soil of the Isle of Man.

Anne Wynter had been born that day, and Annelise Shawcross . . .

She had disappeared. Gone in a puff like the spray of the ocean all around her.

But realy, it didn’t matter who she was. Anne Wynter . . . Annelise Shawcross . . . Neither one of them was a suitable match for Daniel Smythe-Smith, Earl of Winstead, Viscount Streathermore, and Baron Touchton of Stoke.

He had more names than she did. It was almost funny.

But not realy. His were all true. He got to keep them al. And they were a badge of his position, of every reason why she should not be here with him, tipping her face toward his.

But still, she wanted this moment. She wanted to kiss him, to feel his arms around her, to lose herself in his embrace, to lose herself in the very night that surrounded them. Soft and mysterious, aching with promise . . .

What was it about a night like this?

He reached out and took her hand, and she let him. His fingers wrapped through hers, and even though he did not pull her toward him, she felt the tug, hot and pulsing, drawing her closer. Her body knew what to do. It knew what it wanted.

It would have been so easy to deny it if it hadn’t been what her heart wanted, too.

“I cannot make that promise,” he said softly, “but I will tell you this. Even if I don’t kiss you now, if I turn and walk away and go eat supper and pretend none of this ever happened, I can’t promise that I will never kiss you again.” He lifted her hand to his mouth. She’d removed her gloves in the carriage, and her bare skin prickled and danced with desire where his lips touched it.

She swalowed. She did not know what to say.

“I can kiss you now,” he said, “without the promise. Or we can do nothing, also without the promise. It is your choice.” If he had sounded overconfident, she would have found the strength to pull away. If his posture had held swagger, or if there had been anything in his voice that spoke of seduction, it would have been different.

But he wasn’t making threats. He wasn’t even making promises. He was simply teling her the truth.

And giving her a choice.

She took a breath. Tilted her face toward his.

And whispered, “Kiss me.”

She would regret this tomorrow. Or maybe she wouldn’t. But right now she did not care. The space between them melted away, and his arms, so strong and safe, wrapped around her. And when his lips touched hers, she thought she heard him say her name again.

“Anne.”

It was a sigh. A plea. A benediction.

Without hesitation she reached out to touch him, her fingers sinking softly into his dark hair. Now that she had done it, had actualy asked him to kiss her, she wanted it al. She wanted to take control of her life, or at least of this moment.

“Say my name,” he murmured, his lips moving along her cheek to her earlobe. His voice was warm against her ear, seeping into her skin like a balm.

But she couldn’t. It was too intimate. Why this might be so, she had no idea, since she had already thriled to the sound of her name on his lips, and more to the point, she was wrapped in his arms and desperately wanted to stay there forever.

But she wasn’t quite ready to call him Daniel.

Instead she let out a little sigh, or maybe it was a little moan, and she let herself lean more heavily into him. His body was warm, and hers was so hot that she thought they might go up in flames.

His hands slid down her back, one settling at the small of it, the other reaching down to cup her bottom. She felt herself lifted, pressed hard against him, hard against the evidence of his need for her. And although she knew she should be shocked, or at the very least reminded that she should not be here with him, she could only shiver with delight.

It was so lovely to be so desired. To have someone want her so desperately.
Her
. Not some pretty little governess one could back into a corner and paw at. Not the companion of some lady whose nephew thought she ought to be grateful for the attention.

Not even some young girl who was realy just an easy mark.

Lord Winstead wanted
her
. He’d wanted her before he’d even known who she was. That night at Winstead House, when he’d kissed her . . . For all he’d known she was the daughter of a duke, whom he’d be honor bound to marry just for being alone with her in a darkened halway. And maybe that wasn’t so meaningful, because it wasn’t as if they’d shared more than a few sentences, but he still wanted her now, and she didn’t think it was just because he thought he could take advantage of her.

advantage of her.

But eventualy sanity settled upon her, or maybe it was simply the specter of reality, and she forced herself to pull away from his kiss. “You need to get back,” she said, wishing her voice was a bit steadier. “They will be waiting for you.”

He nodded, and his eyes looked a little wild, as if he didn’t quite know what had just happened within him.

Anne understood. She felt precisely the same way.

“Stay here,” he finaly said. “I will send a maid to show you to your room.”

She nodded, watching as he headed across the galery, his gait not quite as purposeful as she was used to seeing in him.

“But this—” he said, turning with one outstretched arm. “This is not over.” And then, in a voice that held desire, and determination, and more than a little bewilderment, he added, “It can’t be over.”

This time she did not nod. One of them had to be sensible. Over was the only thing it
could
be.

E
nglish weather did not have a lot to recommend it, but when the sun and air got it right, there was no place more perfect, especialy in the morning, when the light was still slanted and pink, and the dew-topped grass sparkled in the breeze.

Daniel was feeling particularly fine as he headed down to breakfast. The morning sun was streaming through every window, bathing the house in a celestial glow, the heavenly aroma of bacon wafted past his nose, and—not that there had been
much
of an ulterior motive to this—the previous night he had suggested that Elizabeth and Frances take their breakfast with the rest of the family rather than up in the nursery.

It was sily for them to eat apart in the mornings. It was extra work for everyone involved, and of course
he
did not want to be deprived of their company. He had only just returned to the country after three long years away. This, he told them, was the time to be with his family, especialy his young cousins, who had changed so much in his absence.

Sarah might have given him a sarcastic look when he said that, and his aunt might have wondered aloud as to why, then, he was not with his own mother and sister. But he was excelent at ignoring his female relations when it suited him, and besides, he could hardly have responded what with the whooping and cheering coming from the two youngest Pleinsworths.

So it was settled. Elizabeth and Frances would not take their breakfast in the nursery and instead come down with the rest of the family. And if the girls were down, then Miss Wynter would also be there, and breakfast would be lovely, indeed.

With an admittedly goofy spring in his step, he made his way across the main hall to the breakfast room, pausing only to peek through the sitting room at the large window, which some enterprising footman had puled open to let in the warm, spring air. What a day, what a day. Birds were chirping, the sky was blue, the grass was green (as always, but it was still an excelent thing), and he had kissed Miss Wynter.

He nearly bounced right off his feet, just thinking about it.

It had been splendid. Marvelous. A kiss to deny all previous kisses. Realy, he didn’t know what he’d been doing with all those other women, because whatever had happened when his lips had touched theirs, those had
not
been kisses.

Not like last night.

When he reached the breakfast room, he was delighted to see Miss Wynter standing by the sideboard. But any thought of flirtation was dashed when he also spied Frances, who was being directed to put more food on her plate.

“But I don’t like kippers,” Frances said.

“You don’t have to eat them,” Miss Wynter replied with great patience. “But you will not survive to dinner with only one piece of bacon on your plate. Have some eggs.”

“I don’t like them that way.”

“Since when?” Miss Wynter asked, sounding rather suspicious. Or perhaps merely exasperated.

Frances wrinkled her nose and bent over the chafing dish. “They look very runny.”

“Which can be rectified immediately,” Daniel announced, deciding it was as good a time as any to make his presence known.

“Daniel!” Frances exclaimed, her eyes lighting with delight.

He stole a glance at Miss Wynter—he still was not quite thinking of her as Anne, except, it seemed, when he had her in his arms. Her reaction was not quite so effusive, but her cheeks did turn an extremely fetching shade of pink.