Once and Forever

by Mary Blayney

  Without even a nod of acknowledgement she turned and hurried off. He watched the sway of her hips beneath her slender skirts. Yes, her figure really was quite desirable. He shifted his coat to hide just how desirable as his grandmother came into view.

  “There you are. What on earth are you doing in the maze? One of the footmen said he’d seen you heading this way. And you’re still dusty from the road. Sometimes I have a hard time believing you are not still in short pants. You certainly do not act like a grown man. I am certain that I directed you to your room to freshen up when I met you at the door. How can I introduce you to my guests when you smell of horses?”

  Miss Watson had not complained of his smell. And if she didn’t he didn’t see why anyone else should either. And it was his house, why did his grandmother always make him feel a child — and a petulant one at that. The worst was that he began to think and act like one when she was about. “It is good to see you again, grandmother. I am afraid that I needed to stretch my legs after the ride from Town. I did not expect that I would meet anyone in the maze. It is normally a quiet place. I will trust that my stench will not offend anyone here in the great outdoors.”

  “Really, Radford, you make yourself sound the fool. And I do know that you are not one. Go in at once and change. I will not bother my friends with you in this state.”

  Given that all her guests were standing only a few feet away listening to this whole exchange it seemed a little late to be concerned that the state of his attire and his scent should bother them, but he was willing to take any excuse not to be caught in the middle of the gaggle until it was unavoidable. “I will take my leave then. Grandmother. Ladies.” He gave a partial bow to each and fled back to the house.

  And he did admit it was flight. He’d willingly faced Napoleon’s armies, but those troops had not been made up of dowagers with unmarried daughters.

  She could not remove the kiss from her mind — or the tingles from her body. Molly lay on her bed, every muscle tight, trying to sleep. But how was a woman supposed to sleep when every time she closed her eyes she saw his smiling face, the eyes crinkled, the firm lips lifted just at the corners. Normally, she objected to his look of cynical amusement. His pleasure always seemed to come at her expense. But in her mind she saw him as he’d been in that first moment, that blink of an eye, when their lips had parted. He’d looked so young then. So happy. Delighted by some secret.

  A secret she was beginning to understand.

  Against her will her left hand rose to her lips. They didn’t look any different —she’d spent enough time staring at them in the mirror to know — but they felt full and swollen. They should have looked different.

  They were different.

  They were lips that knew a man’s kiss, knew Radford’s kiss.

  She’d thought she understood kissing before, but she hadn’t had a clue.

  How many lectures had she given her girls on not giving in to a man’s desires, on how to avoid being “ruined?” A dozen? Two dozen? A dozen?

  She hadn’t known what she was talking about.

  Not that she thought she was ruined now. She knew exactly what caused ruination — and it wasn’t kissing. Not even this type of kissing.

  But for the first time she understood how kissing led to …

  She squeezed her eyes shut trying to keep from picturing that other.

  She’d seen drawings and heard stories. Too many of her formative years had been spent among sailors to pretend any type of naiveté.

  Only she had been naive.

  She assumed that because she knew what happened she knew how it felt.

  It felt good. Very good. Amazingly pleasant.

  The problem was now she wasn’t even sure that it did feel good.

  It certainly didn’t feel pleasant.

  It burned. It ached. It made her long for more.

  Her mind filled with pictures of Radford, of his teasing smile, his velvet mouth, his broad shoulders. Her imagination pictured his neck cloth loosened, his shirt unbuttoned. Her hands slipped up his chest, under his shirt, her mouth lowered, felt the heat of his skin, the taste …

  No.

  She was a proper lady. She might not be the lady everyone wanted her to be, but she was not a woman to lie in bed thinking lascivious thoughts.

  Her feet hit the floor with a decided thud. If she wasn’t going to sleep she wasn’t going to lie there and think about him.

  There were letters to be written.

  Lists to be made.

  She could read a book.

  She could — she would walk in the garden. A little fresh air would clear her mind. And the maze would remain off limits. Nothing that could, that would, remind her of him would be allowed.

  She was here because her aunt and the dowager duchesses had demanded. It had nothing to do with him. She would block him from her existence.

  With that thought firmly filling her mind, she pulled a light day dress over her chemise. She couldn’t fasten it completely without her maid’s help, but with a few tugs and twists she could manage to look respectable — not that it was actually respectable to wander around the gardens by oneself in the middle of the night — all respectable people were long asleep. But then, if they were all asleep nobody would ever know.

  Humming quietly she left her room and slipped into the hall, her nose already smelling the scent of roses and night–blooming jasmine.

  Chapter Six

  The stars shone like diamonds spread on bluest velvet, the blue so deep as to be almost black, but not. It was a fantastical thought — and one she’d had before, but only on those few rare occasions when her father had persuaded her mother to let her sail with him. And that had not happened for years, not since her mother decided that it was not seemly for her to be alone with so many men.

  Pulling in a deep breath that filled her lungs completely, Molly held the summer air in her chest. If only it was possible to capture these moments, to hold her breath from now until the winter frosts had painted the windows and the scent of coal fires was the only smell available.

  Unfortunately, that was a fool’s dream.

  Molly let the breath escape between her teeth.

  Smiling to herself, she wandered among the high trellises of roses and other climbing flowers. She couldn’t name most of them, gardening had never been one of her delights, but there were an amazing variety of scents and shapes. Why didn’t everyone wander gardens at night?

  Twirling her skirts about her, she felt free. Free from worry. Free from constraint.

  Her bare feet sank in the lush grass and she curled her toes with pleasure. She might never go in, might never allow daily life to return.

  Did women ever become hermits? Could she hide in a corner of the great yards and live on flowers and dew like a pixie?

  A laugh escaped her lips at the thought. Her appetite had never been known for its delicacy. Maybe she could persuade the gardener to bring her a thick slab of beef or roasted fowl on occasion.

  “That’s what I like, a woman’s laughter under the stars.”

  Molly spun at the voice. He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t. She’d come out to the gardens to escape her thoughts of him, not meet the real man.

  “I should go back in.”

  “Are you cold?” Radford asked, stepping closer.

  Given the balmy temperature it would be hard to say yes, still she was tempted. She pulled her toes back under the long skirts of her dress. “You know I am not.”

  “Then am I so frightening that you must flee? I did not mean to interrupt your joy.”

  “No. You do not frighten me.” She pulled her shoulders back.

  He took another step nearer. Were his eyes focused upon her lips? Was he too pulled back to the memory of that kiss, of the passions that had sprung to life so quickly and with such intensity?

  Flames gathered in her belly at even the thought. She swallowed and was sure that his glance followed the movement of her throat.


  “Well, you frighten me,” he said. “Or at least what happens between us does. You are not a woman I want to become involved with. I am far better with a true lady or a chamber maid than anyone in between.” Only a few hands breadth of space remained between them and she could feel the air move as he drew even closer.

  “I did not imagine you dallying with maids.”

  A soft sigh. “I don’t. I meant only that I tend to place my attention only on those who are eligible for marriage or those who would never dream of it. Those in between tend to be problematic.”

  “And I am right in the middle.” Had her toes just inched toward him?

  “Very definitely so.” He reached out and brushed a hand over her hair. Her braid had loosened and his fingers tangled in its curls. “I did not realize it was so long.”

  “I’ve never had it cut. Even now when fashion calls for shorter hair and curls.”

  “I like it. I’d like to see it unbound, like to run my fingers through it. I can see myself sitting with you before the fire, brushing it out after a bath.”

  Well, that answered her question about if he imagined her when she wasn’t with him. She wished he hadn’t said anything. The image was too tempting, too real. Those private moments spent brushing her wet hair before the flames were precious to her — and the thought of sharing them should have been repellant, but instead it was all too possible to imagine the gentle tug of the brush, of leaning back into the strength of his thighs, of being sandwiched between the heat of the fire and of — of him. “You should not say things like that.”

  “I know. It is why I fear you. You make me want things I never want. When I think of women I do not normally think about their hair.”

  Molly tried to step back, but her legs would not move. “So what do you think about?”

  He chuckled, his chest rising and falling beneath her gaze. “With marriageable women I think about dowries and estates and combining families. I debate whether I can bear to listen to a braying laugh or smell sour breath for twenty years. And with other women I think exactly what you believe I think.”

  “Oh. That does not sound like much fun.”

  “I assure you it is quite a lot of fun.”

  “I meant the marriageable ones.”

  “No, that is not much fun. And it does not help that my grandmother is always there, watching. It is hard to have fun when ones grandmother is always about, being sure that one doesn’t do anything foolish.”

  “And this?” She spread an arm wide, it’s fingertips brushed the brocade of his jacket as it passed. “Is this foolish?”

  “Very foolish,” he whispered. And then his arms were about her, holding her tight against him.

  She’d expected to be pulled into a kiss, but instead he just held her tight, but with exquisite gentleness. His lips pressed against her hair and for a moment she felt treasured, protected by the hard length of his body. Her body relaxed, her head coming to rest upon his chest, her breath rippling the linen of his shirt.

  It was a moment of magic.

  It was a moment of lunacy. He should not be here. He should have fled the gardens the moment that he’d seen her spinning like a nymph in the moonlight. But then she’d laughed and it had been a sound he could have listened to for an eternity, much less twenty years.

  He breathed in the lilac scent of her hair, wishing he could freeze this moment.

  He could still leave, still head into the house to his cold lonely bed. That had been his intention when he left the local tavern. His intentions when he’d headed to the place had been quite different. He’d maintained a relationship with one of the local barmaids for years and a few hours of distraction had held great appeal. But every time he’d looked at Lilla’s full curves and carrot hair he’d pictured Miss Watson more subtle shades — and more subtle curves.

  He’d left after a couple of pints with no more than smile.

  Perhaps if he’d stayed for more, he wouldn’t be here with his hands in Miss Watson hair. He had to stop thinking of her as Miss Watson, but Lady Mary just didn’t fit either. “What do you like to be called?”

  “What?” Her body grew stiff.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean that to come out so gruff. What name do you like? I keep thinking of you as Miss Watson and it seems wrong after …”

  “…After our kiss. I think of myself as Molly. It is what my parents called me. I know it is not refined or elegant, but it is who I am.”

  “Molly.” He tried the word upon his lips. He’d always thought of it as the name of a dairymaid, but some how it did suit. “I like that, Molly.” He squeezed her tight, feeling her lush breasts press against his chest.

  Oh yes, he should have stopped for more than those pints. He pulled his hips back, not wishing to embarrass her — or himself.

  Only she pressed forward, refusing to allow space between them.

  “You make me feel safe,” she whispered. “Isn’t that odd. If anything I should be frightened, alone in the gardens in the middle of the night with a man. But I don’t. At this moment I feel safer than I have in years. I know that you would never hurt me.”

  “I would admit hurting you is not what is on my mind at this moment.” Against his will, Radford found himself turning and pushing into her warmth, his hardness cradled against the softness of her belly.

  He felt her gasp of breath and knew that she understood. She stood stiffly for a moment and then relaxed, letting her warmth rest against him.

  They stood there, silent and still.

  He could feel every breath she took and each time she swallowed. He allowed his neck to relax, letting his cheek rest against the crown of her head.

  “Is it always like this?” she asked after a few moments.

  “I am not sure what you mean?” he replied.

  “The holding. I am sure you’ve held many women. Does it always feel this good, this secure?”

  How did he answer that? “No and no. It is more complicated than your question. The holding should feel good — or you shouldn’t be doing it, but it’s not normally like this. There is something here I have not felt before.” Why was he being so honest, telling her things he had not even dared to think? It must be the darkness of the garden, the sense of being far removed from the real world.

  “How is it different?”

  He drew in a deep breath. How to explain? “It is both more emotional and less intense.”

  “How can anything be more intense than this?”

  He must remember how innocent she was — no matter what she might claim. “Do you remember our two kisses?”

  “My wits do not wander, of course, I remember.”

  “The first was more like this — comfortable. The second, that was what I mean by intense.”

  “So you think this is like the first kiss.” She did not sound pleased.

  “No, I am expressing it badly. Forget the first kiss. It is more the second I am concerned with. There was fire there that is not here now — no don’t look at me like that. You are correct. It is here, but banked. The flames flicker, but do not flare without control.”

  “So you have control with me and not with other women?”

  “Gods. Is everything I say to you so misconstrued?” He turned to bury his nose deeper into her hair. “I have less control with you than I’ve ever had with another woman. I first began to tease you as a game, but this is no game we play now. I would stay away from you if I could. And don’t take that to mean that I don’t like you. I do. I am more entertained in your presence than I am with any woman of my acquaintance.”

  “I still don’t understand about control.” Her hips shifted as she spoke, rubbing against his length.

  He came very close to demonstrating lack of control. He gritted his teeth. “At a certain point in kissing and caressing it becomes difficult to go back instead of forward. We have not reached that point tonight, but we came close to it with our kiss in the maze.”

  “So if things progress you become u
nable to stop?” Her voice rang with curiosity — and something else.

  “No. A man can always stop — and don’t let any man ever tell you differently. It merely becomes more difficult.”

  “So we could kiss again?”

  “Would you like to?” His voice sounded with more hope than he wished.

  Her breath caught, and then she let out a long sigh, warming the skin of his chest even through his shirt.

  “Would you like to?” he repeated.

  “Yes, only, I do not want to be ruined and I certainly do not wish to find myself with child.”

  “You do not need to be afraid. I certainly have no desire to ruin you and if there were a child I would do the honorable thing.” How had this conversation escaped him to this extent? He wanted to kiss her, not have sex with her. Well, he did want to. What man wouldn’t? But, he certainly knew it was not a wise thing and he was a man ruled by his brains not his cock.

  “I won’t even ask what the honorable thing would be. I am afraid we might have very different ideas on the subject and I do not wish to argue.” Letting her head fall back, she stared up at his face, at his lips.

  And he had to agree. He did not wish to argue.

  His desires took over and he lowered his lips.

  This was like neither of their other kisses. It had the fire of the second one — Radford had been right about that — but it was more. So much more. There was emotion and want and desire and — and she didn’t know what more, but it was there, that something that pushed this beyond even her imaginings. Her whole body throbbed with it. She wanted to be closer, so much closer. She pressed forward, her body plastered to his but it was not enough.

  How had warmth and tenderness gone to this in the blink of an eye?

  Not that she really cared.

  Molly would take this — however it came.

  His lips were hard upon hers, pushing her mouth open in a way that should have been uncomfortable, but was anything but.

  She was devoured and devouring. Her tongue rushed out to meet his with no prompting. The lessons of that afternoon had been well learned.