tell you why I like swimming if you tell me why you always like to sneak up behind me.”
“I suppose it’s a reflex from a former life,” he said quietly.
“I suppose you will refuse to explain?”
“Correct.”
“Well, then I shall say the same. Swimming is a reflex from a former life, too.”
“Fair enough,” he murmured. “Everyone is allowed their secrets.”
In her heart, she had known that he would find her. And she had a very good idea of what might happen. There was a small part of her that wanted this—wanted to prove that she was not too old, not so unappealing that someone would leave her to die on a cliff. Could she still be the same girl she had been when she was much younger and life had held so much promise?
There would be no harm and certainly no future in it. But at least there would be something other than the pain of the past—even if it meant more pain in the future. And most importantly, it would hurt no one other than herself. She heard rustling just behind her and then her throat clogged and she could not manage a single witty comment.
Alexander Barclay sat down beside her, his elegant black velvet footwear gone, his fashionable stockings below his black satin knee breeches drawn off as well. He dangled his lower legs in the water beside her.
For once not a single word was spoken between them.
Time drifted. And for the first time since her father had died, she felt the simple pleasure of sharing silence with someone, without the discomfort of feeling the need to fill it with nonsense, which it seemed she was only capable of uttering to this gentleman.
A few minutes later, she felt the warmth of his palm cover her hand, resting on the moss between them.
She turned to stare at him, only the sliver of moonlight guiding her vision. His brown eyes were black in the evening shade, his skin shadowed white.
She inhaled and leaned toward him. “Kiss me,” she whispered.
“I thought—”
“Stop talking,” she interrupted softly.
Suddenly, strong arms drew her across his lap, and she didn’t care that the hem of the gown was getting wet.
He drew her into the crook of his arm, and tucked her tight against his chest. He stared down at her and brushed a lock of her hair from her cheek. “You know,” he whispered, “this is the best idea you’ve had so far.” His expression defied his words.
She wrapped her free arm around his neck and tugged him down to her. “Well, do you want to kiss me or not?”
It was the first time in her life that she had instigated a kiss. She strained to get closer to him. His scent was vibrant—of man, of ardor, of clean sweat, and old-world elegance. He searched her eyes for a long moment before he bent toward her.
His mouth caressed hers, nudging, nibbling, and finally urging her lips to part. She could barely breathe with the insanity of it. She shivered involuntarily at his slow, deep kiss—and he pulled her ever closer to his body until there was no space dividing them.
His tongue played at the seam of her lips and then beyond, finally intertwining with her own. All this while he caressed the nape of her neck, and teased the curls there before he cradled her head in his hand.
Great waves of emotion flooded her, leaving her numb with shock. But she would not shrink away from the intimacy of it. She was parched, but now filled with desire, and something else she could not name. It all felt so wonderful, and yet . . . wicked and wrong.
But wicked was better than where her proper, virtuous life had led her until a fortnight ago.
His mouth eased from hers. “Mmmmmm . . .” he murmured. “You taste divine. Like—”
“No ridiculous compliments,” she whispered raggedly.
She felt his mouth curve into a smile as he dragged his lips along the column of her neck. Her heart was hammering and she could feel the blood pounding in her veins.
He tenderly kissed the wild pulse point on her neck. “Thank you for making this seduction so
“I suppose it’s a reflex from a former life,” he said quietly.
“I suppose you will refuse to explain?”
“Correct.”
“Well, then I shall say the same. Swimming is a reflex from a former life, too.”
“Fair enough,” he murmured. “Everyone is allowed their secrets.”
In her heart, she had known that he would find her. And she had a very good idea of what might happen. There was a small part of her that wanted this—wanted to prove that she was not too old, not so unappealing that someone would leave her to die on a cliff. Could she still be the same girl she had been when she was much younger and life had held so much promise?
There would be no harm and certainly no future in it. But at least there would be something other than the pain of the past—even if it meant more pain in the future. And most importantly, it would hurt no one other than herself. She heard rustling just behind her and then her throat clogged and she could not manage a single witty comment.
Alexander Barclay sat down beside her, his elegant black velvet footwear gone, his fashionable stockings below his black satin knee breeches drawn off as well. He dangled his lower legs in the water beside her.
For once not a single word was spoken between them.
Time drifted. And for the first time since her father had died, she felt the simple pleasure of sharing silence with someone, without the discomfort of feeling the need to fill it with nonsense, which it seemed she was only capable of uttering to this gentleman.
A few minutes later, she felt the warmth of his palm cover her hand, resting on the moss between them.
She turned to stare at him, only the sliver of moonlight guiding her vision. His brown eyes were black in the evening shade, his skin shadowed white.
She inhaled and leaned toward him. “Kiss me,” she whispered.
“I thought—”
“Stop talking,” she interrupted softly.
Suddenly, strong arms drew her across his lap, and she didn’t care that the hem of the gown was getting wet.
He drew her into the crook of his arm, and tucked her tight against his chest. He stared down at her and brushed a lock of her hair from her cheek. “You know,” he whispered, “this is the best idea you’ve had so far.” His expression defied his words.
She wrapped her free arm around his neck and tugged him down to her. “Well, do you want to kiss me or not?”
It was the first time in her life that she had instigated a kiss. She strained to get closer to him. His scent was vibrant—of man, of ardor, of clean sweat, and old-world elegance. He searched her eyes for a long moment before he bent toward her.
His mouth caressed hers, nudging, nibbling, and finally urging her lips to part. She could barely breathe with the insanity of it. She shivered involuntarily at his slow, deep kiss—and he pulled her ever closer to his body until there was no space dividing them.
His tongue played at the seam of her lips and then beyond, finally intertwining with her own. All this while he caressed the nape of her neck, and teased the curls there before he cradled her head in his hand.
Great waves of emotion flooded her, leaving her numb with shock. But she would not shrink away from the intimacy of it. She was parched, but now filled with desire, and something else she could not name. It all felt so wonderful, and yet . . . wicked and wrong.
But wicked was better than where her proper, virtuous life had led her until a fortnight ago.
His mouth eased from hers. “Mmmmmm . . .” he murmured. “You taste divine. Like—”
“No ridiculous compliments,” she whispered raggedly.
She felt his mouth curve into a smile as he dragged his lips along the column of her neck. Her heart was hammering and she could feel the blood pounding in her veins.
He tenderly kissed the wild pulse point on her neck. “Thank you for making this seduction so
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