Page 7 of The Meaning of Love
He’d matured since last she’d seen him; then again, so had she. The man who stood two yards away was a far cry from the lanky young nobleman he’d been; this version was plainly a force to be reckoned with.
His dark, almost-black hair was elegantly cut and fashionably windswept, a style that suited his Byronesque handsomeness. His evening clothes were the height of elegance and fitted his broad-shouldered, lean, and rangy frame to perfection. The impression he projected was one of calm, contained, and controlled power, of flexible, effortless strength of both body and mind. His intelligence was evident, directing every movement and every word.
With his gaze locked on Gordon, he walked forward and halted a few feet from her. “I’m referring to your notion of repairing your financial situation by marrying a well-dowered lady—not, of itself, a disreputable aim—but how you go about it, that, dear cuz, does concern me and all the rest of the family.”
The penny dropped, and she realized that Julian, as the earl, was now the head of his family, and apparently, that family was the Delameres. She hadn’t previously heard his last name. He’d always been Dagenham or, more recently, Carsely to her, and in the years since they’d parted, she’d been extremely careful not to evince too much interest in him.
But Julian was still speaking, wielding words like a whip as he laid into Gordon over the younger man’s dissolute habits and profligate ways, which, unsurprisingly, had led to his currently precarious pecuniary state.
Gordon grew surly but, other than tossing Julian dark looks, didn’t even attempt to defend himself, leaving her to conclude that all that Julian so succinctly and clinically laid bare was true.
That Gordon Delamere had set out that evening to somehow force her into marriage gradually sank in.
If she hadn’t been distracted by Julian’s appearance—hadn’t been sent fleeing by the impact of that shared glance—she would never have accepted Gordon’s escort onto the terrace, let alone to the secluded gazebo. She recalled how pleased Gordon had been at her suggestion they go outside; he’d caught her at a weak moment, and she’d fallen like a ripe plum into his hands.
If Julian hadn’t come after her…
That didn’t bear thinking about.
Her temper surged anew, but as Julian was doing such an excellent job of ripping strips off his cousin, she wrestled her temper into submission and let him have the field.
By the time Julian dismissed Gordon with a harshly condemnatory look and a pointed recommendation to rethink his strategy, she almost felt sorry for Gordon.
Almost.
With his lips compressed, after fleetingly glancing at her, with a careful, wary look at Julian, Gordon stepped past him and left.
Julian turned and watched his cousin go and fought to rein in his raging temper. He’d long ago learned not to lose it—he couldn’t remember the last time he had—but at that moment, bombarded by feelings on so many fronts, he was struggling to harness his fury.
He wasn’t even sure who he was angrier with—Gordon or…
The instant Gordon was out of sight, Julian swung to face Melissa. He looked into her face—a moonlight-pale oval surrounded by the frame of her dark hair. His gaze roved her features, hungrily committing each to renewed memory, overwriting the vision he’d carried of her; her finely arched black brows, large dark-blue eyes, and lips the color of a pale blush rose, their lines drawn by a master, seared into his conscious mind. Important—so important.
Something in him had always known that.
He tried, truly tried, but couldn’t stop his anger from spilling forth. “Don’t you have the sense you were born with? What the devil possessed you to come out here with such an obvious if pretty cad like Gordon?”
Her eyes narrowed, and her lovely lips compressed. After a second, she responded, “He’s not that pretty, and why I chose to accompany him outside is none of your business.”
“Really?” He couldn’t stop himself; he shifted closer, looming over her. “And how did you imagine you were going to manage once he got his hands on you?”
Her eyes all but sparked. “For your information, he’d already tried that and had discovered I’m not some helpless biddable female.” She tipped up her chin. “I didn’t require any rescue. I’m not the young girl you used to know.”
“That’s half right”—she certainly wasn’t the slip of a thing, retiring and reserved, he’d been so attracted to all those years ago—“but trust me when I say Gordon wasn’t about to stand down. He is that desperate.” The notion she would have been able to subdue his cousin was nonsensical. She was slender, sleekly curved, and a lightweight, and Gordon was almost as large and strong as he was.
She wouldn’t have stood a chance.
The realization of how close she’d come to… His temper surged. He gritted his teeth, thrust his face closer to hers so their eyes bored into each other’s, and bit off, “Regardless of your, likely misplaced, confidence in your fighting skills, gentlemen like Gordon are not for you.”
Toe to toe with the man she still occasionally dreamt of, with her temper in the ascendant, Melissa felt not a single qualm in meeting his gray eyes, full of silver fire, and quietly, evenly, and categorically stating, “You have no right whatsoever to dictate with whom I choose to associate.”
She glared into his eyes and saw silver deepen to pewter. His temper was a tangible thing, beating against her own. She sensed more than saw the tension in him waver, as if he teetered on the knife-edge of a decision.
Then he moved.
His hands rose and framed her cheeks, and he drew her to her toes, bent his head, and crushed her lips beneath his in a hard, fiery, passionate kiss.
Chapter 2
