Thunder and Roses by Mary Jo Putney Page A

contrast to the gentleness of his lips. Her fingers moved restlessly over his ribs.
     
    When he began kneading her shoulders and upper arms, her eyes closed and she drifted, flotsam in a sensuous sea, both of her hands working against him like a kitten nursing. Locks of loosened hair fell over her shoulders, brushing across her sensitized flesh with feather lightness. She felt as if she were made of wax that could be molded into any form he desired.
     
    She felt a faint tugging behind her neck, then his hand slid lower, his open palm warming the area between her shoulder blades. With icewater shock, she realized that he had unfastened the button that secured the top of her gown. As he started to finger the next button, she spun away from him. “Isn’t there a time limit to kissing?” she asked with a brittle sham of composure. “Surely this one must be over.”
     
    He made no attempt to prevent her from escaping. Perhaps his breath had quickened, but he seemed otherwise unaffected by the embrace. “A kiss has no set length,” he replied mildly. “It’s finished when one of the participants decides that it is.”
     
    “Very well. Today’s kiss is over.”    She reached back and refastened the button with unsteady hands.
     
    “Was the experience as bad as expected, Clarissima? You didn’t seem to dislike it.”
     
    She would rather not have answered, but honesty compelled her to say, “I … did not dislike it.”
     
    “Are you still afraid of me?”
     
    He touched her fallen hair with a butterfly’s delicacy. She might not have noticed that touch, except that she noticed everything he did. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and met his gaze steadily. “Aristophanes said that boys throw stones at frogs in jest, but the frogs, they die in earnest. You’re going to break my life into splinters, then move on without a second thought. Yes, my lord, you terrify me.”
     
    He became very still. “Only things that are rigid can break. Perhaps your life needs to be splintered.”
     
    “That sounds very profound.” Her mouth twisted. “Your life was shattered four years ago. Are you better or happier for it?”
     
    His expression hardened. “It is definitely time to retire. I’m going into Swansea tomorrow, so
     
    I’ll see you at dinner.” He lifted the dusty velvet cover and tossed it over the table.
     
    Clare took a small branch of candles from the top of the equipment cabinet and left the room at a pace that was almost a run. She didn’t stop until she reached her bedchamber. There she locked the door, set down the candlestick and sank into an upholstered chair, her hands pressed to her temples.
     
    One day, and one kiss, had passed. How on earth would she survive another ninety?
     
    Not only had she enjoyed the embrace of a man who was not her husband and whose intentions were strictly dishonorable , but she could not prevent herself from yearning for the next day’s embrace. For the sake of her soul, she should leave Aberdare immediately. The village could take care of itself. No one had asked her to sacrifice herself for Penreith; it had been strictly her own idea of duty.
     
    The thought of leaving cooled her overheated thoughts. The earl was willing to do things that would benefit hundreds of people, and it would be madness to forfeit that because of a spinsterish attack of nerves. She was overreacting to what had been a startling new experience; tomorrow she would be less susceptible to his wiles.                       
     
    After changing into her flannel nightgown and braiding her hair into a long plait, she climbed into the enormous bed and ordered herself to fall asleep. She would need all of her strength to hold her own against the Demon Earl.
     
      Nicholas stood in front of the fireplace and gazed idly at the dying coals. The house felt less dismal with her in residence, but she was having an unsettling effect on him. Perhaps that was