Indiscreet by Mary Balogh Page B

the present.”
    â€œA common belief.” She smiled. “But one impossible to live up to, I believe. I think we all dream. How else can life be made bearable at times?”
    â€œHas life sometimes been unbearable to you, then?” he asked. He wondered if her life really was contented. She had been living here for five years. She had been widowed for at least that long. How old was she? In her mid-twenties at a guess. From the ageof twenty or so, then, she had lived alone. Was it really possible that she was contented with such an existence? Of course, it was possible that her marriage had been insupportable to her and the freedom of widowhood seemed a paradise in contrast.
    â€œLife is unbearable to all of us at times,” she said. “No one is fortunate enough to escape all of life’s darkness, I believe.”
    They had reached the river, which flowed through the wood and on out of the park to skirt behind the village. It gurgled downhill at this particular point, over stones and under an arched stone bridge with balustrades either side that they had used to balance on as children, arms outstretched.
    â€œIf ever you want peace,” he said, coming to a stop in the middle of the bridge and resting his arms along the top of the wall, “this is the place. There is nothing as soothing as the sight and sound of flowing water, especially when the light falling on it is filtered through the branches of trees.” He let his horse wander to the other side to graze on the grass of the bank.
    She stopped beside him and looked down into the water. Her dog ran on ahead.
    â€œI have spent many idle minutes standing just here,” she said. Perhaps she did not realize that the tone of wistfulness in her voice said more than her actual words expressed. It told him that she agreed with him and that there had been many occasions when she had needed to seek out peace.
    He looked down at her, slim and dark and beautiful beside him. Her fingertips, in kid gloves, were resting on the edge of the balustrade. If only his calculations at the start had been correct, he thought, he would have known her quite intimately by now.He would know what that slender, shapely body felt like beneath his hands and against his own body. He would know how soft and warm and welcoming she was in her depths. He would know if she loved with cool competence or with hot passion. He would know if the first could be converted to the second.
    He would wager that it could.
    He wondered if once or twice would have satisfied him. Would he be hot for her still, as he was now? Or would he—as he usually was with women—be satisfied once he had known all there was to know? Would he have lost interest and not even have pursued her this morning for this unwise walk through the woods with her?
    He could not know. He probably would never know.
    He did not realize that he had been standing staring silently down at her until she looked up at him, awareness in her face and in her eyes.
    He reached for something to say to her but could think of nothing. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but closed it again and looked back into the water. He wondered afterward why he did not merely straighten up and suggest that they continue on their way. He wondered why she did not think of the same way of defusing the tension of the moment.
    But neither of them thought of it.
    He leaned sideways and down, turning his head and findingher mouth with his own. He parted his lips in order to taste her. Her lips trembled quite noticeably before returning the pressure of his. He did not touch her anywhere else. Neither of them turned.
    The kiss did not last long, but far longer than it ought to have lasted. He looked back into the water. She presumably did the same thing. He was shaken. He did not know quite where this was headed and he liked to be in control of his affairs. She had refused to be his mistress. And he had been given the firm