Jesse’s expression grew solemn. “And would you be jealous if I said I did?”
She nearly lost the ability to speak. Was he flirting with her? Again? He had her at sixes and sevens. “Should I be?”
“Ah, of course not.” He guided her arm until it linked through his. “May I join your walk?”
He wasn’t giving her much choice, but she didn’t truly mind. Spending time with him was intoxicating. Not even escaping inside her books could compare. “You may indeed,” she allowed, matching his slow, steady steps as they began wending about the garden.
“I’m surprised to find you here and not in the library,” he commented lightly. “It is rare to see you sans book.”
“If you must know the truth, I’ve a book in my pocket just now,” she confessed. “I was thinking very hard on what shall happen next in The Eustace Diamonds when I collided with you.”
“I take it Trollope is a favorite of yours? If I recall properly, you were reading Trollope in the library the first time we met.”
He remembered. She nearly tripped over her own feet. Bella shot him a glance. “You do have a habit of remembering the oddest details.”
“It’s not every day one meets a lady with a proclivity for sitting on her spectacles.” He sent her a sideways look. “Whatever became of your spectacles, my dear? They didn’t meet a bloody end beneath a bustle, did they?”
She laughed at his daring for reminding her of how she’d clumsily attempted to hide them under her bottom that long-ago day. “Maman refuses to allow me to wear them in company, so I’m relegated to wearing them in my chamber.” Unless she could sneak away to a quiet library where she didn’t fear her mother would find her, of course.
Somehow, the mere mentioning of her chamber brought a level of intimacy to the conversation that had her flushing. She looked away, studying a statue of a classical god. The gardens here were rather magnificent, she had to admit. She’d heard Lord Cosgrove employed some forty staff beneath his head gardener.
“Contrary to your mother’s opinion, I think your spectacles become you,” he said lowly. “It’s a shame of the worst order that if I want to ever see you wearing them again I shall have to sneak into your chamber.”
Though said in jest, his words sent warmth pervading her body. Her stomach felt quite queer. “I’m afraid that would be rather indecent of you, Mr. Whitney.”
“I’m rather an indecent fellow.” He placed a hand over hers on his arm. “Let that be a warning to you. Never trust me.”
He had a true knack for bringing out the minx in her. She stopped walking, forcing him to do the same. She turned to face him fully, searching his face. “Am I in danger now, then?”
He looked down at her—truly, he had an impressive height and cut quite a masculine figure with his strong muscles and lean legs—and the need to swoon came upon her. He was more than every romantic hero she’d read about in books. He was real. He was beautiful. And, with the sun shimmering around them in the quiet square of garden at Wilton House, he was hers.
Or was he? He had yet to answer. Before her better judgment forced her to reconsider, she reached up to cup his cheek. She had eschewed gloves, and his skin was vibrant, warm and just a bit scratchy beneath her fingers. The silence between them was heavy and full of so many things neither was willing to say. She may have been unschooled in the ways of men, but even she could feel the passion simmering. No man had ever looked at her in the way Mr. Whitney now was, as if he wanted to consume her.
“Well, Mr. Whitney?” she asked, unable to help herself. She never wanted this moment to end. The day, the greenery, the scent of early autumn about them, the man. They were all riveting. Better than a book. It was her Mr. Whitney, the man she’d longed after for years, looking at her as if she were a woman, as if she were more than a younger sister. “Am I in danger?”
Her fingers wandered from his jaw to his mouth, so manly yet firm. His breath was warm as it fanned against her skin. His eyes fastened upon hers. “Yes,” he said simply, and then she was in his arms.
Perhaps she had played with the proverbial fire but now she didn’t care. He crushed her against him, her breasts to his hard chest, her skirts smashed against his legs. Her corset cut into her sides from the force of his embrace, but she scarcely felt it. If this was danger, she wanted more of it.
As though he’d heard her utter the sentiment aloud, he obliged her by caressing her wasp silhouette with his hands. Even beneath the stiff boning and layers, his touch sent her heart madly tripping. But nothing could have prepared her for his mouth on hers.
Her first kiss.
His lips molded hers, gently at first, but then with greater ardency. She didn’t know where to place her hands, how to move her mouth. She was still, relishing the moment, yet frozen in her untried innocence. She was terrified. What if she did something wrong? Good heavens.
He must have sensed her apprehension, for he pulled away. His face was still very close to hers. She could make out tiny flecks of green in his blue eyes. He was likely disappointed. She wanted to disappear.
“I’m sorry,” she hurried to explain, “I have never before…that is to say, I’m not entirely certain of what I ought to be doing.”
The admission was nearly as horrifying as being kissed by the man she’d wanted for so long and being rendered incapable of movement. His hands tightened on her waist. He pressed his lips to hers again. “Bella,” he whispered, his accent like honey rolling over her senses, “you’ve never been kissed?”
Goodness, her novels had left her with no notion of what to do in a man’s embrace. Bella settled for doing what felt most comfortable. She hooked her arms around his neck and leaned into him. Her gaze never wavered from his. “Never,” she confirmed.
“Then I count myself honored,” he said in a soft tone that served to dispel some of her embarrassment.
He lowered his mouth to hers once more, and this time his kiss was slower, guiding. She moved her lips in time with his. Sensation buffeted her. The tingling began in her stomach and ended between her thighs and at the very tips of her breasts. It was new. His tongue slipped inside her mouth. He tasted of the richness of coffee. She wanted, oh, she didn’t know. She wanted him. Her Mr. Whitney. Her tongue rubbed against his. Angels in heaven.
“Christ.” Muttering the oath, he tore his mouth from hers as suddenly as he’d begun kissing her. His hands set her away from him.
They stared at one another, their breathing matched and harsh. He hadn’t meant to kiss her. She could discern that much from his shocked expression. What’s more, he hadn’t meant to like it. And innocent though she was, she knew instinctively that he had.
“If that is danger,” she said in hushed tones, “then I should like to be in danger more often.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You cannot. You should not. Damn it to hell, Bella, let this be a lesson. You must never let a suitor be so familiar.”
She asked the question begging to be posed. “Are you a suitor, then?”
“I’m a friend,” he corrected, regaining his composure. “Nothing more.”
“Nothing more,” she repeated, struggling to comprehend what had just occurred.
He cut an abrupt bow. “I’ll leave you to your walk. Please forgive me for the interruption.”
And just as hastily as he’d intruded upon her blissful afternoon, he vanished from it. Bella was left to watch his broad back rounding the bend, wondering how she could ever look at him again without imagining his kisses.
ella saw precious little of Mr. Whitney for days, which proved quite a feat given that they were attending a house party together and there were only so many places he could hide. She was confused by his apparent defection. Wounded too. Perhaps their shared kiss had not meant anything at all to him. It was a most deflating thought.
“Arabella, darling.”
Blast. The dowager’s voice trickled to her through the closed chamber door. Bella whipped off her spectacles and stuffe
d them beneath a pillow along with the book she’d been reading. She had just enough time to feign sleep before her mother swept the door open. When in doubt, Bella had learned over the years, pretend to nap. Typically, it fooled the dowager every time.
She heard the unmistakable swish of her mother’s skirts, the steady and determined steps growing ever closer. Drat and double drat. It would seem she would not have such an easy escape.
“Arabella, do wake up, you sluggard.” Her mother’s edict was accompanied by an abrupt prodding of Bella’s shoulder.
She suppressed a sigh and peeked from one eye. “Maman, I fear I am quite fatigued. Can you not speak with me later?”
“Nonsense,” the dowager declared. “You will speak with me now, daughter. This is a matter of utmost importance.”
Oh dear. She opened both her eyes in defeat. “Is something amiss?”
The dowager cleared her throat. “It has occurred to me that you’ve been quite Friday-faced for the past few days.”
“I have not.” She frowned, disturbed to realize even her mother, oblivious as she tended to be, had noticed the effect Mr. Whitney had upon her.
Her mother pinned her with an omniscient stare. “I should be very displeased indeed if your sour mood has been caused in any way by the society you’ve been keeping with that no-account American.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you speak of,” she lied.
“I’ll not stand for prefecation, my dear,” her mother countered.
Bella would have smiled at her mother’s garbling of the King’s English under ordinary circumstances, but she had the unsettling feeling the dowager had somehow been alerted to her interlude with Mr. Whitney. “I do believe you meant to say prevarication, Maman.”
“Is that not what I said? I shall not tolerate insolence from you, young miss.” The dowager sniffed as though she’d caught scent of something foul in a barnyard. “I have it from Hollins that there have been whispers that you favor Mr. Whitney when I have made it clear to you that you must be setting your cap for the Duke of Devonshire. What have you to say for yourself?”
Hollins was her mother’s lady’s maid and source of all manner of gossip, both true and false. It was not good for Hollins to be bringing untoward news to the dowager. Uncertainty trickled through Bella. No one had ever seen her alone with Mr. Whitney. Had they?
She sat up, wincing as her stays dug into her sides. “Maman, I do not favor Mr. Whitney at all. He was kind enough to help me fetch a book in the library, nothing more. You mustn’t heed all the old gossips.”
The dowager’s expression remained pinched. “You must tread with care, Arabella. Romance is a petty notion better suited to books and schoolgirls than real life. You must ally yourself with a man with a family name and history suited to our own.”
If she wished to avoid a lengthy diatribe, Bella knew it best to simply agree with her mother. In truth, the Duke of Devonshire was not a man who made her feel tingly with anticipation. He didn’t memorize her favorite verses of Matthew Arnold. He wasn’t handsome in a devilish, manly way. He wasn’t Mr. Whitney.
Did she think she had a future with the no-account American, as the dowager called him? Her heart said yes, but her mind said no. His kisses had changed everything. She longed to be held in his strong arms again. Perhaps romance was a trifling thing, but Bella found she rather liked the way it upended her emotions. She wanted more.
But instead of voicing any of these dangerous sentiments to her mother, she nodded. “Yes, Maman. I shall endeavor to do honor to our family name.”
“Good girl.” Her mother patted her hand. “Remember, when you speak with the duke you must always agree with him. Pay attention in great detail to each word he speaks, as though it comes from the lips of the Lord Himself.”
Good heavens. Bella gave her mother a saccharine smile. “Of course.”
Despite the uncomfortable interview with her mother, Bella could think of nothing more than seeking out Mr. Whitney at the first possible opportunity. Days had passed without even a glance her way at the dinner table. She had to concede he was intentionally avoiding her. She was equally unwavering in her resolve to catch him unawares. How could he kiss her, alter her forever, and then act as if he didn’t know her? It was vexing. Infuriating, even. She would not allow him to get away with it.
Growing ever more frustrated, she resorted to what she’d only read about in novels. She sent him a secret note with the help of her lady’s maid Smith, asking him to meet her in the library once more. She very carefully chose a day when the house party was engaged in outdoor sport, knowing that like she, Mr. Whitney would eschew it.
It seemed to her that she waited a fortnight or more until he finally materialized in the library. She was pretending to read a book on a divan when he stalked into the chamber, looking unfairly handsome and, in that way he had, just a little bit uncivilized.
Bella rose, discarding her unwanted book without heed. “Mr. Whitney.” Her voice sounded racked with nerves, even to her ears. “I feared you wouldn’t come.”
He gave her an abbreviated bow. “Lady Bella, I am, as ever, your servant.”
She wished the words were true, but he was not and likely would never be hers. Drat it all. She had chosen her gown with care and fretted with it now, hoping he wouldn’t realize how much thought she had given to her toilette. Smith had even taken extra time with her hair. Bella felt suddenly silly.
“You do not seek out sport as the other guests do?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
“I have no need for weapons in my life.” His voice was as solemn as his gorgeous face. “I shot the last gun I ever intended to shoot in the war.”
“I’m sorry.” She felt guilty for again dredging up such a delicate subject. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Not at all.” He inclined his head. “I believe our kinship allows us a certain familiarity.”
Kinship.
She frowned at him. “Mr. Whitney, we are not kin.”
“I consider myself another older brother to you, my dear.” He said this last mildly, as if he had never passionately taken her in his arms.
Her stubborn nature rose to the surface. She may have been a mild-mannered girl with no sins more alarming than a penchant for reading too many novels and outwitting her mother, but she was not about to let him try the same old road again.
“Do you put your tongue in all your sisters’ mouths, Mr. Whitney?” She gave him a false smile. “I confess, Americans do have such odd customs.”
“Lady Bella, you shock me.”
Ordinarily, she would never be so forthright, so vulgar in her speech, but he had driven her beyond the brink of reason. That he could face her so calmly, as if they had never experienced the fire in one another’s arms that they had, hurt her. She had thought of little other than him in the intervening days. Had he thought of her at all?
“Indeed? You will own that you did kiss me.” Before she could keep the seam of her lips firmly sealed together, the words were out. Foolish, foolish girl. Had she not embarrassed herself enough before him already?
“Think nothing of it.” He smiled at her, but it was not a lover’s smile. Rather, it was that of a worldly man dismissing a green young lady.
She was not amused at his attempts to set her down, nor was she grateful for the tact he exhibited. Perhaps she was untried and had not much experience with men, but she was not an imbecile. She had emotions. She had a heart. He had to know what he did to her.
“Think nothing of it,” she repeated his careless words, her tone grown cool. “You say it as though we were discussing nothing more than a speck of dust on the family silver. You kissed me, held me in your arms. Surely it is of more consequence to you than that.”
His eyes flashed with dark emotion. For a moment, his gentleman’s mask slipped to reveal passion hidden beneath his imperturbable façade. “It was wrong of me, damn it. It cannot happen again.”
“Why not?” Why d
id he insist on seeing her as a girl? She’d had her comeout years before. She hadn’t even been this dizzied by curtsying before the queen in Buckinghamshire Palace and still the dratted man refused to treat her as his romantic equal.
“You are an innocent lady,” he gritted, clearly growing frustrated by her determination.
She was unmoved. “Nonsense. So is every other unmarried miss.”
He frowned at her. “You are my best friend’s sister.”
Ah, there was the true crux of it. Dash Thornton. Dash Mr. Whitney’s cursed notion of loyalty. This simply wouldn’t do. She decided to change tactics.
Bella met his gaze, searching. “Are you saying you could never love me?”
This time, he laughed. “My dear Lady Bella, love has very little to do with stolen kisses and romantic embraces. You show your naïveté.”
Her breath left her. Before she could rein in her temper, she slapped him. The echo of her blow rang through the quiet of the cavernous library. They stared at one another. A faint trace of redness marred his cheek. She had done him violence. She almost could not believe it.
His lips quirked into a wry semblance of a smile. “The kitten has claws.”
She wanted to apologize but her pride would not allow it. “I’m no kitten.”
He raised a brow. “So I begin to see.”
She was fast losing her composure, feeling as if she’d waded into the ocean and was caught up in its dangerous swells. But it was too late to turn back to shore. “Do you think that because I am younger than you I have no feelings?”
“Nothing of the sort. Rather, I think your youth leads you to mistake your feelings.”
Irritation nettled her. Of all the insufferable, arrogant notions she’d ever heard, it was the most maddening. “You think me too ignorant to understand my own feelings, then?”
He took her hands in his, an unwelcome gesture given the mercurial nature of her emotions. “Bella, you misunderstand me.”
Rebel Love (Heart's Temptation Book 2) Page 3