One Tempting Proposal (15 page)

“Do you think we should go back?”

“I'm trying
not
to think.”

“What would happen if you did? Regret?”

“No, Kat.” He drew back and lowered his chin, assessing her. “And you? What will you think of all of this in the light of day?”

Her fingers found the button of his evening shirt, the first one above his waistcoat, and she fondled it, memorizing its shape and anchoring her fingertips behind it as if a tug might bring his mouth down on hers again.

She'd never found it so difficult to meet a man's gaze as she did now, when he might see all the unladylike hunger brimming inside.

“I suspect I'll wish you'd kissed me more and I'd talked less.” She meant the words as a hint as much as a confession, and hoped he'd kiss her once more before they settled their clothes and tamed their urges prior to rejoining the others.

He traced the edge of her bottom lip with his forefinger.

“You should talk as often as you like, and not hold back. And as for kissing . . .” He swept his fingers up across her cheek and she felt the stroke as if he'd touched her lower, down her neck, slipping down her middle, and settling with a tantalizing heat between her thighs. “I'm happy to oblige.”

He pressed his mouth to hers and waited, tempting her but letting her take the lead. Easing up her toes, she balanced by leaning into him, and took her turn exploring, marveling at the intimacy that came so easily with a man she knew so little. She'd wanted him to touch her from the first, and being in his arms felt as if the space had been made for her.

When she touched her tongue to his, he moaned into her mouth, and clasped her tighter, nearly lifting her off her feet.

Too much.
The thought cut in, like the chime of an enormous bell. Too much sensation. Too much pleasure.

She pushed at his chest to create distance between them. Her own chest hummed. Her whole body burned, oversensitive and pulsing, the feelings he stoked in her too much to contain.

And none of it was real. They were actors fooled by their own play.

She finally caught her breath enough to speak. “I don't want you to oblige me, Sebastian. Don't ever kiss me out of obligation.”

“You know that's not what I meant.”

“Do I? How do I know? We've known each a week.” He may sometimes see past her artifice, but he wasn't familiar enough to know that she thought too much about every word she spoke, every expression that crossed her face. Or that nearly every choice she'd made in her life had more to do with spiting her father than finding her own happiness. “We don't truly know each other at all, Your Grace.”

Soon they'd part ways, and she might hate herself for this fragile, fleeting moment when she wished for more.

Extracting herself from his embrace was easy. He lifted his hands the instant she pulled away. But walking out the door was harder, and the composure she'd perfected, the elegant walk Mama had taught her, the neutral expression that gave nothing away—­all of it was gone. As if she'd been stripped of her armor during those precious minutes in Sebastian's study, and none of it would ever fit properly again.

 

Chapter Fifteen

“I
WON'T WEAR
that.” Kat continued shaking her head as he dropped the cloth on the seat beside him. He didn't think she'd willingly let him use it to cover her eyes, but he wanted to keep their destination a secret and thought it worth a try.

“Then you'll have to put your hand over your eyes for the next few minutes. We're almost there.”

“We've been on this train for nearly an hour.”

He knew it all too well. Seb's resolve not to repeat the madness in his study wavered the moment they stepped into the enclosed first-­class train carriage and her fresh floral scent surrounded him. He'd asked the name of the fragrance and she'd gone on about
Convallaria,
also called lily of the valley, describing its tiny white bellflowers so lovingly that he grew as eager to see the flower itself as to draw near Kat and get a deeper whiff of its perfume from her skin.

He'd been sitting across from her for nearly an hour, the belled edge of her skirt brushing against his legs, and attempting to make conversation while his mind indulged in cataloging her slopes and curves and angles. Proximity to Kat was necessary until they could celebrate Ollie and Hattie's marriage, but he had to find a way to keep his hands, and the rest of his body, to himself.

He'd vowed to be levelheaded in her company, but as she pouted about covering her eyes, he thought only of tracing the shapely bow of her upper lip with his tongue.

“Can't I simply promise not to look out the window?” She answered her own question by lowering her hand from her eyes and glancing through the glass. Turning back to glare at him, she huffed out a frustrated sigh and lifted her arm to cover the upper half of her face again.

“You don't enjoy surprises, I take it.”

“I hate them. Papa says only a fool allows himself to be taken by surprise. Clever men are always two steps ahead.”

“And you agree with him?”

Silence told him she didn't. The man's beliefs were there, ready to spill from her tongue, no doubt imprinted in her mind, and yet Seb suspected she disagreed with most of what her father believed. He hoped she at least disagreed with the man's tendency to dismiss
her
worth.

“He's my father.”

And a father's admonitions—­right or wrong—­stayed with you, shaping you and your behavior, like it or not. Didn't his own inner compass sound like his father as often as not? Reginald Fennick had been a titan in his fields, admired by those he met and taught, a man who enriched the lives of those around him. From what he'd seen of Kat's father, the man brought no comfort. He might be intelligent and a brilliant politician, but if he poisoned the air each time he spoke, what must it be like for Kat to have his voice ever in her head?

“Would you like a hint about where we're going?”

“I'd like to put my hand down.” She heaved a frustrated sigh but didn't lower her arm. “But, yes, I shall settle for a hint.” Her cheeks went a delicious shade of peach when she was irritated.

“Very well. I suspect you've been there before.”

“Then it won't be much of a surprise.” She even managed to look fetching while complaining.

“Perhaps, but I think you'll enjoy it nonetheless.”

She slumped against the seat, dipping her shoulders, and her corset pressed in, forcing her breasts up, offering him an enticing view of creamy flesh threatening to spill over her neckline.

Damn his urges and his eyes and all the blood rushing to his groin. He'd denied himself female company for too long. Somewhere beyond the haze of lust and desire and all of the rest of what Kat sparked in him, he'd forgotten what the pleasure of her company was truly about. They were playing the besotted ­couple to aid Ollie and Harriet.

He clenched his fists, gripping the seat on each side of his thighs. He had to reclaim the cool head and chilled heart he'd been quite content with for years.

He couldn't take advantage of the situation between them. Society might turn its eye on a few liberties between a man and his betrothed, but that intimacy didn't truly exist between them. Attraction hadn't led them to this moment, cloistered together in a train car. Necessity and practically had. Now he simply had to find a way to tell his body that.

“I hope it's a very public place.” That was the practical Lady Katherine speaking, and she was right to worry about whether this outing would serve its function to allow them to be seen about town as an engaged ­couple. He was grateful one of them could keep a clear head.

“It is. I do remember why we're doing all of this.” He did, truly, if he concentrated hard enough. Ollie. Lady Harriet. Young love. A blissful future. All those prospects that were lost for him now.

“Good.” She sighed again, and he tried to look anywhere but at her bosom. Her mouth. No. Not there either. Her hand encased in white dainty lace. No. The empty expanse of the railcar's plush bench seat beside her seemed a safe spot to cast his gaze, but the block of dark velvet upholstery was only interesting because of the way her hip curved against it.

“We really should be quick about this outing and then find a place where we might talk and plan. I've brought a list of all of the preparations I've begun and what's yet to be done.”

She liked her lists, and he admired the orderly way her mind worked. He liked the way she conducted herself—­self-­possessed and graceful. And he understood the way she loved her sister, her need to ensure her sibling's happiness, even if he'd have preferred helping Ollie and Harriet via some means that did not involve the falsely constructed engagement between them.

All this artifice because of one pompous, stubborn man. When it was done, and the young ­couple went off to begin their life together, Seb quite liked the notion of throttling the Marquess of Clayborne, or at least never laying eyes on the man again.

Gazing out the window, he noticed a sign indicating they'd soon arrive at their destination.

“We're here.” And thank God for it. He needed to walk and get blood pumping in his limbs, to see fascinating plants and flowers, anything that might distract him and allow his mind to focus anywhere but on Kat.

“Can I look now?”

He could have said
yes
and kept his hands to himself. But resolve failed him completely. Reaching up, he clasped her wrist, and pulled her hand down to her lap.

Rather than turning to gaze out the window, she sat still and watched him, until he realized he wasn't simply holding her wrist but stroking the expanse of skin above her glove.

He released her, flexing his tingling fingers, and settled back in his seat as the train came to a stop.

“We're in Richmond. At the Kew Bridge train station.” She fisted her hand against her mouth as her eyes went wide. Then she blinked and blinked again, her thick tip-­tilted lashes fluttering against her cheek. “You're wrong, Sebastian. I haven't been here before.” She gulped. “But I've always wanted to visit the Royal Botanical Gardens. What a perfect surprise.”

A perfect surprise for the woman who purported to hate them. The hint of a smile curving her mouth and the astounding admission that he'd managed to please her despite her determination not to be pleased hit him in the center of his chest with a burst of warmth, spreading out to allow him to unfurl his fingers where he clenched the edge of his seat again.

She stepped from the train without waiting for him to assist her and bound forward so quickly he lost her in the sea of disembarking passengers. He found her at the entrance to the gardens, bouncing on her heels.

“Where shall we start?” He'd never been to Kew Gardens either and relished the notion that they'd be first-­time explorers together.

“At the beginning, of course.” A pucker appeared between her brows. “I understand the gardens are quite extensive. It could take much of the day.”

Did she truly think he considered time spent with her a burden? He couldn't have endured more than ten minutes at each of the balls he'd attended without her presence to lure him into staying. And the anxious dread he'd felt since taking on a dukedom had suddenly turned to an eagerness for each day's encounter with her.

“Then lead on, my lady.”

She shot him a look at his use of her honorific. He'd said the words before, but after last night, after holding and kissing her, the meaning had changed.
My lady.
His alone. For a fraction, just a sliver of a moment, he allowed himself to imagine it. That he could call this strong, clever, beautiful woman his partner, his lover, his future. The notion had him trembling as much as touching her had.

No.
He forced the images from his mind and focused on the ground under his feet and the blue firmament above. No matter what he wanted, no matter how these moments with her might haunt him when their scheme came to an end, no matter how she provoked him—­body and mind—­he had nothing to offer her. She deserved more than an embittered man still haunted by the past.

As they walked, every single item seemed to thrill Kat, though she turned back to check on him often. He'd fix his gaze on a random plant, so she wouldn't realize he'd been studying her reactions rather than the impressive flora around them. Many of the flowers weren't yet in bloom and a pair of sisters who'd come in just behind them insisted June was the best month to visit. But nothing, not the over-­chatty sisters, nor the flowers still cocooned in bud, daunted Kat's enjoyment. He noticed that she bit her lip each time a smile curved her mouth, as if she wasn't allowed such excessive enthusiasm. He suspected her father had some saying stuck in her head, reminding her to never to enjoy anything too much.

Seb favored the rock garden, admiring the tenacity of the vines and creeping plants clinging to stony structures, embracing jagged boulders, and beautifying the plainest of stones. Kat crouched down, drawing disapproving moues from the visiting sisters, and pointed to a patch of green in the shade of a craggy gray stone. Bright pink flowers with hot yellow centers, as tiny as teardrops, dotted the clumps of green plant.

“Beautiful.” And he didn't just mean the flowers. The strong breeze had loosened the pins in Kat's hair, a few strands lashing against her cheeks, and she'd dirtied the hem of her white and black striped gown to show him a bit of beauty in the darkness.

She tilted her face toward him and he offered a hand to help her up, barely resisting the urge to touch his fingers to the honey strands whipping around her face.

“Thank you.” She grinned but turned her gaze from his.

Awkwardness loomed between them now, not unlike the elderly sisters who'd shadowed them from the moment they entered the gardens. Their presence was a matter of chance, but the awkwardness with Kat was his doing. He had given into impulse in his study, to his own needs too long ignored, and he'd touched her as he'd wanted to from the moment he'd seen her glittering at the edge of her mother's ballroom.

She'd been right to put an end to it last night, and his choice of an outing today was meant to be an offering of sorts, a means of making peace between them.

“You never know when you'll find color in a shady spot. Many flowers prefer a bit less sunny attention.” She took in the flowers shooting up from a winding watercourse along the path but kept turning her gaze back to the tiny cup-­shaped pink-­gold flowers hugging the rock.

“Is it fair for them to spend their days hidden by a broken lump of stone where few will even notice them?”

She lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the sunlight and gazed up at him.

“I don't think they'd wish to be anywhere else. That rock needs a bit of cheering, and perhaps they only care to be seen by those who'd bother to take a closer look.”

He pressed his lips together to resist smiling like a fool. Kat seemed to have a terrible habit of inspiring smiles. He'd smiled more in the past week than he had in years.

The sisters had gotten lost somewhere behind them, and he and Kat took a bend in the path into an exotic corner of water running over a block of stone and vines bearing purple flowers. Kat grasped his arm and a current of sensation rushed through him, all the way to his toes.

“Look!
Passiflora incarnata.
” She rushed over to stand before the extraordinary flowers and then turned back as if she intended to introduce him. “The passionflower.”

The flowers were strange and beautiful, a vibrant shade of purple with curling sprigs, like tendrils of corkscrew hair, of the same shade surrounding the bloom.

Kat's face had gone soft, awestruck, and he watched her eyes dance over every aspect of the plant as if she wanted to memorize its color and shape. The flower's sweet spicy scent tickled his nose, but Kat dipped her head and closed her eyes to breathe it in.

She reached down to work the glove off her right hand and lifted it tremulously, looking back at him, her fingers an inch from one of the blooms. “Just one touch?”

Not waiting for the permission she didn't truly need, she reached out to gently stroke the edge of the flower. One touch seemed enough, and she clasped her hand tight as if she could capture the memory in her palm.

“So beautiful.”

“Yes.” He saw the moment of realization. The instant she recognized that he wasn't referring to the plant but to her. That he had to touch her. That he was going to kiss her.

She stepped toward him, toe to toe, and tipped her face into the sun to gaze at him. He lowered his head to offer her shade and draw near enough to study the shards of gold in her eyes, the sable spikes of her lashes, and the constellation of pale freckles across her nose and cheeks.

Then he kissed her, not a hurried press of his mouth against hers, but a slow savoring. Too long and lush a kiss for the public space they were in, and not nearly enough to sate his hunger for the taste of her.