Page 18 of Never a Bride
He suddenly realized he was becoming oddly aroused by this spinster guardian. She was nothing like the open, sensual women he usually preferred.
But perhaps that was the true challenge. Her lush body contradicted all the formal restraint of her manner. Every quirk of her lips implied something hidden, something worth seeking out.
He leaned over her very slowly, feeling the first tickle of stray strands of hair, then the brush of softest silk against his cheek. He could not miss the way she quickly inhaled. Yet she didn’t move away, though he felt her tremble.
Oh, he wanted more of her.
But there was the wager, and Blythe—whom he could barely picture in his mind.
The voices drifted away, and darkness curled itself around them once more, as he heard the restless movement of the horses. Emmeline remained still except for the occasional shiver. He wanted to enfold her in his embrace, but she would only fight him.
Instead he took her hand and pulled her out of the stall.
“They could return!” she hissed, using all her strength to tug at him.
He gripped her harder, not knowing what he meant to do, but only enjoying it. “We cannot talk here. Follow me.”
He left the stables and moved out deeper into the gardens, where rose vines climbed trellises and blocked part of the starlit sky. Only when the path opened up again to circle a gurgling fountain, did he stop to face her. Her breath came rapidly, and one long curl had come loose against her cheek.
He released her and she withdrew her hands back into the armor of her cloak.
“This was unnecessary, Sir Alexander. We have nothing left to say to one another.”
“But I was so enjoying our conversation.” He stepped nearer and was rewarded when she held her ground. He admired her courage, which only made him more puzzled about the men in her life. “So, tell me why you had so few suitors. It makes no sense to me.”
“You mock me, sir. Surely you can see that I am not the ideal of beauty.”
“What?” He tried not to laugh because he knew how serious she was. “There is only one ideal? Then I should have been disappointed that the women with whom I’ve been…well acquainted have all been so different. Who told you such nonsense?”
He saw her bite her lip, sensed that she once again regretted her impulsiveness. Her silence was eloquent, sad, and he wanted to lighten her mood.
“Then a jealous woman must have said so. Any woman who would berate your figure must be as flat as a Yorkshire moor.”
She gave a choked little snort, then her shoulders shook with laughter. “My—my aunt.”
“Don’t give the old crone another thought. That can’t be the reason you’re not married.”
“I had a suitor once.”
He heard the defensiveness in her voice. Immediately he regretted the turn of the conversation. He didn’t want to hurt her—nor did he want to hear about her ideal man, one whom she considered her equal. But it seemed he’d opened a floodgate.
“He was a gentle, intellectual man, a poet.”
Her voice went all soft and dreamy with remembrance and pain, and Alex wanted to scoff, for how many poets were amongst the men of his class?
But he remained silent, and thought he was a fool for respecting a pain she had caused herself by refusing this “wonder” of a man.
“A poet, eh?” he said, keeping his tone light. “I am very good at poetry.” He sprawled leisurely on a bench beside the fountain.
Emmeline told herself to leave, that he would not dare follow her. But she had foolishly opened up herself to this man, and now she was trapped, morbidly fascinated that he did not mock or insult her.
Whydidn’tshe leave? Why could she not forget the way he had felt when she’d pushed him against the stable wall? His body was so different from hers, hard where hers was soft, confident where she was unsure.
“Youare a poet?” she heard herself say.
He clutched a hand to his heart. “You doubt me? Fa, how you wound me, my lady. Night and day, only pretty words occupy my mind.”
She knew he was teasing her. “Then surely you could give me a small performance.”
