What if she lost that control?
He could make it happen.
The desire to do just that smoldered within him as he explored her mouth with his tongue, moved his hands along the curve of her spine, even for a moment cupped her buttocks in his hands and fitted her to his groin.
He could unleash the passion no one had uncovered before in her life—not even her dullard of a husband. The passion she probably did not even know was lurking within.
He could. . . .
He lifted his head and returned his hands to her waist.
“D-did someone say s-something about tea in the drawing room?” he asked her.
“Viscount Darleigh did,” she said. “But I believe you took a wrong turn in the hall, my lord.”
“Ah, careless of me.” He released his hold on her and retrieved the candle from the table. He offered his arm. “Shall we retrace our steps and s-see if there is anything left in the t-teapot?”
“That would be a good idea.”
And he wanted her.
The devil!
Forget about dalliance and flirtation. Forget about virtuous widows and genteel respectability.
He wanted her.
Almost, he thought, alarming himself to no inconsiderable degree, he needed her.
And if that was not a thought to make a man want to run a hundred miles without pausing for breath, he did not know what was.
Especially a man who was savage. And dangerous.
6
Agnes avoided Middlebury, both the house and the park, for three days after the musical evening. It was a decision made easy for two of those days by the fact that it rained.
Middlebury Park came to the cottage, however, in the form of two visits—one from Sophia, Lady Trentham, and Lady Harper the first day, and one from the Duke of Stanbrook and the Earl of Berwick on the third. Sophia brought the baby with her, and he was very much the focus of attention during the visit, as babies almost always were. Both groups came to thank them for coming to dine and to commend Dora on the superiority of her playing. The duke expressed the polite hope that they would hear her again before their visit was at an end.
On the morning of the fourth day, the sun was shining again, though it had to contend with some high clouds, and Dora set off on foot to give the viscount his regular music lesson. Agnes stood in their small front garden to wave her on her way. Often she went with her sister and spent an hour with Sophia while the lesson was in progress, but she would not go this week despite Sophia’s assurances just three days ago that she would be very welcome anytime and must not stay away on account of the visitors.
There were horses approaching along the street—four of them. Their riders paused to greet Dora. Agnes would have ducked back into the house, but she feared she had already been seen and it would seem impolite not to wait to bid them a good morning as they passed. And then one of them detached himself from the group and rode ahead and toward her.
Lord Ponsonby.
Agnes clasped her hands at her waist and tried to look cool and unconcerned or at least as though she had not spent far too long during the past four nights—oh, and the days too—reliving that waltz and that kiss. She was like a schoolgirl dizzy with a romantic infatuation, and she could not seem to summon the resolve to shake off the foolishness.
“Ma’am.” He touched the brim of his tall hat with his whip and looked down at her with eyes that seemed to burn into her own—foolish fancy. Or perhaps not. Once again she observed that he was very obviously a practiced flirt.
“My lord.” She inclined her head to him and clasped her hands more tightly until his eyes dipped to observe them.
“You are not p-painting the daffodils today?” he asked.
“I thought I might later,” she told him. It really did bother her that she might miss them at their best and would have to wait a whole year before they bloomed again.
That was the extent of their conversation. He was joined in the roadway by his three fellow riders, all of whom bade her a cheerful good-morning before they rode on. They were going to Gloucester, the duke informed Agnes, to have a look at the cathedral.
It was a fair distance away. Even if they spent no longer than an hour there, they could not possibly be back before late afternoon. Here was her opportunity, then. She would go and paint.
Usually there was joy and serenity in the very thought, for she did most of her painting out of doors, and her subjects were almost always the wildflowers that grew in the hedgerows and meadows beyond the village. While she painted, she could forget her lingering sadness over the end of her all-too-brief marriage, the essential tedium of her days, the loneliness she tried to hide even from herself, the sense that life was passing her by—as it was, of course, for thousands of women like her. She was not unique in that way. She must never give in to the dreadful affliction of self-pity.
There was no particular serenity today, however, as she set off with her easel and her supplies. There was only a determination to quell her whirling emotions and live her life as she normally did, so that in two weeks’ time, when the guests had left Middlebury Park, she would not fancy that she had been left behind with a broken heart.
Being in love was not at all a pleasant thing—except perhaps when one relived a certain waltz without music and a certain kiss that had seemed shockingly lascivious at the time but probably had not been by any worldly standards. One could not live forever, though, upon memories and dreams. One could not forever ignore the fact that one was alone and that perhaps one would be alone for the rest of one’s life.