Clockwork Countess by Delphine Page A

retainers to a minimum.”  His frown deepened as he turn ed to her .  “Heartwycke is no t a cheerful place.  It is … " he paused and seemed to think better of what he had been about to say .  "At any rate, I imagine you will not be ther e for long.  By this summer you wi ll be out of mourning and off to London for the Season.  You’ll make some sort of suitable match I imagine and be done with us.”
    “Surely, it can’t be as bad as all that?” she said with a mock smile , attempting to make light of his gloomy description .
    But his face settled into a grim line and a haunted expression flickered in the depths of his eyes.  “You may judge for yourself.”
    He held out his hand and she placed hers in his firm grasp.  Even through her glove she could sense the warmth of him as he held her securely in balance while she negotiated the step s into the coach.  His grip was so comforting and solid, she was reluctant to let go, but feeling foolish, she quickly released him and sank back into the luxury of midnight blue cushions. 
    As he climbed in after her, the w arm light of the coach’s running lamps flickered across his face and she was struck again by his dramatic looks.  He could earn a fortune on the W est End stage as a matinee idol, she mused. What a Hamlet he would make!  But then that only brought back memories of her father and the great acclaim he had garnered before his own too brief candle flickered out. She turned towards the window to hide her emo tions as Roderick settled a cross from her . 
    With the crack of his whip, old Meriwether sent the storm gray stallions cantering and the coach swayed along the cobbled streets of the sleepy village. 
    “You’re shivering.”  H is voice was like deep velvet in the darkness and she was acutely aware of the low masculine tones, the unmistakable good breeding of aristocracy in his voice.  Though her father had insisted she study with his vocal coach, and everyone at the theater swore she spoke with the perfect cadence of a lady of the ton , she felt she had never qui t e lost the lilt of her native Ireland. 
    “I a m qui t e alright,” she insisted.
    “Don’t be silly,” he unfolded a thick fur- lined blanket.  “ It gets beastly cold in the country this time of year.”  He moved to sit at her side, draping the cozy blanket carefully across her shoulders, his warm fingers tucking her in, protecting her from the chill mists rising from the damp earth outside. 
    She felt the gentle, firm pressure of his hands through the silky fur, his face was shrouded in shadow, but the force of his presence so close to her in the dark enclosed space made her pulse race.  She could feel his strong thigh pressed against her own as he leaned in to arrange the blanket more securely.  She fe lt herself instinctively angling closer to his warmth, to his magnetism that seemed to draw her in.  His hands went quiet on her shoulders as he looked into her eyes through the black tulle of her veil.  The carriage rocked them back and forth as they sat staring at one another, unable to break away. 
    Slowly, as if it had a will of its own, Rowena’s hand reached up to pull back her veil and she was exposed to the full heat of the yearning kindling in his gypsy eyes. 
    Her breath suspended.  Time slowed as the dark wood whirred past and the sound of the horse’s hooves clattering on the road seemed like the rhythmical round of an eternal clock. 
    Rowan hardly u nderstood what was happening , as drawn inevitably to one another as if by some prearranged ordainment, their lips brushed softly in the darknes s .   She inhaled the scent of him–– horses, pine boughs and a shade of bergamot soap as he kissed her again, the tentative warmth of his lips sending tingles of pleasure all the way to the tips of her toes.  She leaned into him, wanting more of this lovely heady sensation. 
    The swaying of the carriage rocked them gently together as his em brace