Mariah moaned as her head tilted back almost of its own volition, giving him further access to her skin, pushing her even closer to his chest.
His hands, which had remained in place, began to move and he grabbed her hips, tilting her towards the evidence of his need.
Mariah rejoiced in the proof of her effect on him. Felt powerful and seductive and more like a woman than she'd ever felt in her life.
She had no idea what was happening to her but whatever it was, it wasn't enough. She wanted more, quite desperately.
"Please," she whispered brokenly, though she knew not what she was begging for.
Her plea had the exact opposite effect on him than she wanted.
He stopped immediately, froze stock still before her, with an audible curse, he pulled away. The movement was so quick that Mariah stumbled and his arms shot out to right her.
As soon as she was steady, he snatched his hands away.
Mariah felt their loss keenly.
"Dear God in heaven," he muttered, his breathing as laboured as her own.
Mariah could do nothing but gaze at him, still caught up in the dreamlike feelings he had created.
She didn't know what he was thinking but the glazed look in his eyes led her to believe that he was as surprised by what had happened as she, and he had enjoyed it just as much.
"What the hell am I doing?" he said, his tone guttural, his face a picture in self-recrimination.
Mariah dropped her eyes to gaze at the floor before her. His shame made her feel terrible. No doubt he had not meant for their kiss to go as far as it had. He had not meant for them to kiss at all, she would warrant.
He must think her an absolute wanton. Perhaps he even assumed that she gave her favours lightly. She would not blame him, not after her behaviour.
To her horror, she felt the beginnings of hot tears prickle her eyes and she turned her back so that she could dash them away.
"Oh hell, I've made you cry." He sounded miserable about it, which made her feel slightly mollified. "Miss Bolton, please do not cry. You have no need to be scared of me. I am sorry, truly sorry. I should never have touched you as I did, and the blame lies with me and me alone."
"I'm not scared. That's not why I am crying, you dolt," she snapped, so caught up in her upset that she did not even care that she was calling him names.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked horrified.
"No" she sniffed.
"Then what –"
"You must think I am a brazen harlot, and I'm not," she blurted, feeling even more tears coming and powerless to stop them.
The sound of his choked laughter had her whipping round to glare at him.
"What's so funny?"
"You are crying, not because I have taken advantage of you, not because anybody could have seen us, not because I was more forceful than I should have been, but because you are worried of what I think of you, is that right?"
She nodded miserably.
"Unbelievable," he muttered before marching back to the side table and pouring more brandy. This time, two glasses.
Coming back he thrust one toward her.
"Here," he snapped gruffly, "drink this."
"I don't want it."
"It's for the shock."
"I'm not in shock," she argued, stomping her foot.
"Well then, you're the only one," he said before swallowing the entire contents of his glass.
He stared sternly at her until she finally gave in and took a tentative sip. The amber liquid burned down her throat and warmed her instantaneously but the taste was horrible.
She grimaced and gave it back to him.
With a wry smile he took it and moved it along with his own, back to the table.
"Not to your taste, hmm?"
"It's disgusting."
"You get used to it."
"Only if you want to," she answered.
He laughed softly then asked, his voice quiet; "are you alright?"
Mariah was beginning to feel thoroughly embarrassed about her behaviour and at his question her cheeks flamed.
She nodded but avoided his eyes, looking instead at the floor.
"I am sorry," he said now, cupping her chin and tilting it so that she had no choice but to look up into his dark eyes.
"You do not need to be," she said licking her lips, "truly."
She could not in good conscience allow him to feel that she hadn't been a willing participant in their kiss.
If anything, she was convinced that it would have been a lot more than a kiss had he not stopped it.
She told herself not to feel so excited at the thought.
"I don't know what came over me," he said now, sounding bewildered, "I mean, anyone with eyes can see how incredibly attractive you are. But that." He shook his head now. "That was – different."
Oh God! Did that mean she was bad at it?
The thought was even more embarrassing than anything else she'd felt up to this point.
And in her embarrassment, she found the strength to be angry. Angry was good. Angry meant she wouldn't cry again.
"Yes, well, apologies if it's not up to your standards, but contrary to what you must think of me now, I am not accustomed to kissing gentlemen I've only just met. In fact," she continued, trying to inject her tone with some haughtiness, "I'm not accustomed to kissing anyone."
"Miss Bolton, I can assure you I do not think you are anything other than an innocent."
His words, instead of calming her down, only incensed her more.
"Oh, so I am so terrible a kisser that it is proof of my innocence?"
"What? No, that is not what I meant. I merely—"
"Oh I know exactly what you meant. Perhaps they do things differently in London, sir. But here in the North we tend not to insult each other at every chance we get."
Mariah spun on her heel and practically ran from the room.
Never had she been so embarrassed, never had she been so angry and never had she been so convinced that her life had just changed forever.
CHAPTER FIVE
"Mariah, are you unwell?"
Her mother's short, sharp question sounded from the doorway.
"I did not hear you knock, Mama," said Mariah sarcastically. She was far from in the mood to deal with her mother today.
"That's because I didn't," said her mother without apology, peering at her with eyes that usually missed very little. "Why are you still abed? You missed breakfast and I am sure you should have been at the Manor long before now."
Mariah sighed and sat up. Apparently, her plan of hiding in her room for the rest of her life had been foiled already. Before she'd even aged a full day.
"I did not sleep well last night," she explained now.
It was a gross understatement. The truth was she had not slept at all last night and had only dozed off when the cockerel from the neighbouring farm made his presence well and truly known.
"Well that's no reason to stay in bed all day. Mr. Haverton will be expecting you."
At the mention of Brandon Haverton's name, Mariah felt a strange mixture of nervousness, lust and shame spread through her.
He was the most confusing and handsome man she'd ever met. The combination did absolutely nothing for her sleeping habits.
"Mama, I have been thinking and perhaps you were right yesterday. It does seem unfair that Papa should be left to do everything by himself and, well, it is rather unheard of for a young woman to be taking on a job like this one. Besides—"
"Nonsense, Mariah. Your father is more than capable of handling the patients alone, as he has been doing since long before you came along. And as for my objections, though I stand by my concerns, it's no use worrying about them now since you've already consented to do it. Now—" She bustled over and pulled the covers from Mariah's head. "—up you get and off you go. It will do you no good to have his servants tell him that you did not do a good job."
Last night when Mariah had returned she had purposefully neglect
ed to mention that Mr. Haverton was in fact in residence at the Manor. If she had done, no doubt she would have been sent off with Lillianne trailing behind her, especially if she were to tell her mother that Mr. Haverton was unattached. And devilishly handsome.
She did wonder momentarily if she should tell Mama about her kiss. Just to watch and see if her head would actually explode. But then, she reasoned that on balance it probably was a scientific impossibility for a human head to explode from anger and all she'd be left with is a lifetime of pious sermons and quite possibly a demand that she marry the man.
And as much as the thoughts of marriage appealed because it meant she could do all sorts of things with him, there were plenty of reasons why she didn't want that.
For one thing, she did not know him. For another he was an arrogant brute. And though she had become too preoccupied with his lips to think overly long on their conversation yesterday, throughout her sleepless night she had thought about everything he'd said in great detail.
His life was complicated, he'd said.
He had dependents coming to live with him, Mrs. Yates had said.
It didn't sound good. Intriguing, but not good.
Perhaps she should tell Mama now that Mr. Haverton was here. No doubt Mama would insist that she cease travelling to the house of a single gentleman immediately and then all her problems would be solved.
Tempting though the thought was, however, Mariah knew she would not do it. Not least because her mother would berate her for having spent the day there yesterday.
Besides, she couldn't avoid the man forever. But for today at least she most certainly could. At least until she worked out how to act normally around him and not throw herself at him the moment she saw him.
As well as that, she should probably apologise for her tantrum yesterday evening.
Thinking logically about it, Mariah guessed that he had meant no insult when he had said she was obviously an innocent. No doubt he was only trying to reassure her that he did not think she was the most light-skirted hussy he'd ever come across.
But to apologise meant having to face him and that was something that would have to wait, on account of her excruciating mortification.
Her mother had marched out of the room calling for Martha to come and assist Mariah as she went.
So, she was getting up then, thought Mariah snippily before sighing in defeat.
Fine. She would get up and dressed but she would not, under any circumstances whatsoever, see Brandon Haverton today.
"Miss Bolton," Mariah's heart almost gave out at the sound of a now familiar masculine voice.
Looking up from the book she'd been reading, she felt the breath leave her body at the mere sight of him standing there.
He looked so dashing in his tight breeches, dark blue coat that did nothing to hide the broadness of his shoulders and shiny Hessians.
Mariah had been convinced that staying at home meant she would not have to face her brooding, irritating, gorgeous employer. But fate, it seemed, had a sick sense of humour.
"How did you find me?" she blurted out.
"Were you in hiding?"
"No, of course not. But—"
"I went to your father's surgery cum apothecary first. A very unusual setup, I must say. I have never seen the two professions combined."
"Yes, well, my uncle was the original apothecary but he moved to Edinburgh with his wife so my father took over."
"Your father or you?"
Mariah started at the question.
Being from London, Mr. Haverton would no doubt be extremely disapproving of her profession. And it wasn't even a profession, not really. She didn't get paid for it, though Lord knew she should have really since most of the work in the apothecary was done by her.
But still. From a respectability point of view, and from a not having one's mother descend into a fit of despair and mourning point of view, it wasn't a profession. A hobby, more like.
"I help out," she admitted now, carefully. "I have an interest in medicine and herbs and healing, and my father is good enough to indulge me."
"Ah, I understand," he said, then added with a mischievous glint in his eyes; "I was only asking because of the sea of the sick and infirm demanding your presence just now."
"What? Who?"
"I believe I have just made the rather loud acquaintance of a Mrs. Callahan, a Mr. Davies and a Miss Thornsworth."
"Oh, blast!" Mariah said with feeling as she jumped from her chair, uncaring of the fact that she had used such language in front of him. "They're going to come here then."
"They are?" he asked, brows raised.
"Yes, they are. They always do on the rare occasions that I'm not there."
"But you shouldn't even be here, should you? You should be at the Manor doing your job."
All of a sudden, he sounded like the proud, arrogant man she'd met yesterday and Mariah was immediately on her guard. Memories of their kiss and her subsequent escape flooded her mind and her cheeks flamed in response.
"Yes, well. I had thought that perhaps you would no longer need me," she mumbled.
"Are you finished sorting the library?"
"Of course not."
"Then I need you."
Mariah told herself not to feel anything in reaction to his words. He meant them in terms of finishing the task, nothing else.
"I do not think it would be a good idea, Mr. Haverton."
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "What if I promise to stay away from you?"
No! Her mind screamed.
"That won't be necessary," she muttered trying not to beg him to do the exact opposite.
"I'm afraid it will be," he answered, a wry smile hovering on his lips.
"Why?" she whispered, suddenly feeling a change in the atmosphere.
He stepped closer and Mariah felt a visceral tug of desire in her abdomen. And elsewhere, if she were being honest.
"Because you ran away yesterday due to my attentions. I don't want you to run away, but I can't guarantee that I can keep my hands off you. So I'll stay away."
Oh my. That was quite an answer. And although his words played havoc with her heart, she couldn't resist arguing the point.
"I ran away because you insulted me," she contended.
"I did not."
"Did too," she countered, not unlike a child.
"I did not," he bellowed, sounding infinitely more childish than she.
"You said I couldn't kiss properly," she shouted.
"God dammit. You are the most infuriating female I've ever met," he barked rather rudely, to Mariah's way of thinking. "I most certainly did not say you couldn't kiss properly. If you couldn't kiss properly, I wouldn't be standing here wanting nothing more than to kiss you again."
His words succeeded in ending any conversation and any ability Mariah had of forming a coherent thought. Excepting one. The thought that if she did not feel his lips pressed to hers again, she would surely perish from pure desire.
They stared at each other, his almost black eyes boring into hers.
This was madness. She barely knew the man, liked him even less. Yet her body was traitorous in its longing for him.
He stepped closer and it was all Mariah could do not to launch herself at him.
"This is madness," he said quietly, echoing her thoughts.
"I know," she agreed, surprised that she could even speak.
"And yet…"
He reached out, brushing her cheek with his knuckles and Mariah shuddered in response.
She was shocked by how much his simplest of touch affected her.
"Miss Bolton, I—"
Whatever he'd been about to say was interrupted by a loud banging on the door.
Mariah started then stepped back from him.
"That'll be the army of the afflicted, will it?" he asked drolly and Mariah was both impressed and a little insulted that he sounded perfectly normal while she was going up in flames.
"It must be," s
he confirmed dully, knowing she was in for a morning of imagined illnesses and persistent complaining.
"You know," Haverton said, a smile playing about his mouth, "if you were to come back to the Manor you wouldn't have to deal with any of them. You could bury yourself in the books you are so fond of and not deal with a single person all day if you so choose."
Mariah couldn't deny that it sounded tempting.
Especially because she would be in close proximity to Brandon Haverton. Which was ridiculous, but true.
The loud, nasally sound of Mrs. Callahan's voice reached them in the drawing room and Mariah made an instantaneous decision.
"Fine, I'll come," she said in a fierce whisper, "but we'll have to sneak out the back way."
"You can't be serious," said Mr. Haverton incredulously but his words were muffled; he was speaking to her back as she left him behind.
They darted through the hallway and ran toward the back of the house. It was ridiculous, running around one's own house like a burglar but there was nothing else for it.
Either they would get caught by Mrs. Callahan, in which case Mariah would be stuck listening to her imaginary diseases all day, or they'd get caught by Lilly or Mama, in which case Mr. Haverton would be stuck trying to avoid the parson's trap all afternoon.
They reached the conservatory and slipped out into the garden beyond.
Mariah beamed at her co-conspirator, delighted with their success.
"My horse is in the stable," said Mr. Haverton, but he offered her an answering grin, which promptly stole her breath all over again.
"Not to worry," she said, almost giddy with relief and with being in his company, "we can sneak round to the stables now. I shall have to collect the gig in any case."
"Your house is rather larger than I expected," said Mr. Haverton as they walked around to the stables at the back, keeping a close eye out for perspective interrupters.
"It is?"
"Indeed. When I saw the size of your father's surgery, I assumed that the family lived in the building too."
"Ah, well my uncle used to live there until he moved away. Although my father does own the building. In any case, my mother would never agree to living in a shop. She's a terrible snob," Mariah said with a roll of her eyes. "It would be beneath her to live there. So we live here."
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