Page 35 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
“The distance between us is becoming impossible,” he said, his voice low.
Genevieve’s pulse stuttered, her own breath catching in silent acknowledgment of everything his words implied. Her control was slipping, but she did not fight it. His hand rose, cupping her face, his palm warm against her skin. The touch, so deliberate, sent a tremor through her, unraveling any pretense that still remained. His mouth found hers, and there was no gentleness in the kiss.
Weeks of suppressed tension found their release, pouring into the pressure of his lips, into the fierce claim that left no room for reluctance. Her fingers fisted into his shirt, the fine linen yielding beneath her grip as his arms wrapped around her, she found herself pressed against his person. Her breath fractured against his mouth, each drawn gasp stolen before it could steady.
He moved against her neck, his mouth trailing downward, drawing a shiver that echoed in the quiet space between them. Her fingers wove into the hair at his nape, her body yielding to the heat rising between them, answering his urgency with her own. The glass house, the journals, and the restoration faded beneath the weight of the moment. Only the heat remained.
***
“Genevieve,” he said, groaning. His wife’s name escaped him in a rasp, torn from a place deeper than thought or reason. His forehead pressed to hers, breaths mingling in the narrow space between. The scent of her jasmine and warm skin unraveled what little control remained.
“I cannot resist,” he said, voice rough with hungry reverance and need. “Not any longer.”
Her lashes lifted, and her eyes met his with a boldness that struck him. She did not retreat. Instead, she threaded her hands into his hair once more, guiding his mouth to hers with newfound certainty. The taste of her, the softness, and the sigh she gave against him as her body arched undid him. He drew her in, arms tightening as though he might anchor them both in that stolen, suspended moment.
His hand trembled as it rose to her throat. He found the narrow silk ribbon there, seeking to remove the frail boundary he no longer intended to honor. His fingers brushed it, seeking the knot, even as his mouth found the delicate line beneath her ear. Her hands curved around the back of his neck, fingers fisting as she pressed herself closer. There was nothing tentative in her now, no trace of maidenly restraint. She wanted him, as well, and heaven help him, he would give her all she asked.
The thin linen of her night rail did little to mask the press of her body. He felt her every contour, every breath, as well as the heat building where they met. His own need was no longer something distant and leashed. It pressed hard against the confines of his nightshirt, undeniable and rising. He groaned again, into the hollow of her throat.
“Genevieve,” he said again, with husky yearning.
He bent, hands sliding to her hips as he prepared to lift her atop the workbench. It was an impulsive, imperfect altar, yet sacred now for holding her. The varnished edge bit into his thighs as he adjusted his hold and prepared to disrobe his bride.
Then the sharp, discordant call of a horn shattered the silence. They froze. Another blast came, longer, more insistent. Then shouting. Several voices, overlapping. One word cut through, distinct and unmistakable.
“Fire,” a muffled voice cried, audible only for its urgency which pierced through the walls of the glass house.
Gabriel drew back at once, eyes narrowing. The horn sounded again, this time, from nearer the house. His jaw clenched as his body, still taut with need, shifted from desire to alarm in a single breath.
“West stables,” another voice said.
His grip slackened, hands falling from her waist. He stepped away as though yanked by unseen force. Genevieve’s breath still came fast. Her lips were parted and her hair was askew. Her eyes searched his, dazed, unsettled.
“Go inside,” he said, his years of command replacing the man of passion he had been moments ago. “Do not wait for me.”
She nodded, though the flush in her cheeks had not faded. He forced himself not to look longer, not to remember the feel of her pressed to him.
By the time he reached the doorway, the shouts had multiplied. Orange light flickered against the trees beyond the garden wall. The scent reached him next. Smoke, thick and acrid, filled the wind, making it difficult to breathe. Gabriel sprinted toward the source. The night was no longer quiet. Panic gathered, rising with the smoke.
But even as his mind raced ahead, organizing, assessing, and preparing to lead, some part of him remained with her still, back in the hush of the workroom, where something between them had very nearly changed forever.
Chapter Fourteen
The change in Gabriel was instantaneous. One moment, his body had been pressed against hers, his breath had been warm against her skin, and his restraint had been lost in the space between them. The next, he was gone. The man who had held her with aching tenderness had disappeared. In his place stood the Earl, hard-edged, honed by command, and utterly inaccessible to her.
Genevieve barely had time to register the sharp blast of the hunting horn before his arms fell away, his warmth retreating as his focus snapped outward, assessing the threat with swift precision. His Expression had instantaneously hardened as all signs of softness erased, replaced with sharp calculation. No hesitation, no lingering glance, only immediate action. She felt the loss acutely.
Then came the shouts. Suddenly, the world was filled with urgent voices rising from the direction of the stables, the warning carried through the night with undeniable force. Before she could process what was happening, Gabriel was already moving. He sprinted across the lawn before she could take a breath, his strides long, his posture controlled yet brimming with intensity. Servants emerged from the house, some half-dressed, others pulling on coats as they rushed forward, drawn by the alarm. Gabriel’s voice rang clear above the commotion, barking orders with sharp authority.
Genevieve pressed a trembling hand against her lips, the heat lingering where his mouth had been only moments before. Then, shaking herself free of the confusion clawing through her chest, she grabbed her dressing gown and followed, half-running, her pulse pounding with a chaotic mix of curtailed passion and genuine fear. The entrance hall buzzed with controlled activity. Footmen and grooms hurriedly gathered buckets; their movements swift but coordinated. The housekeeper stood near the doorway, her hands clasped tight, issuing quiet directions to the younger maids, who had been startled from their beds. Sophia stood pale on the stairs, her fingers gripping the carved railing, her night robe slipping from one shoulder as she searched the chaos for understanding.
Through the window, she could see that James was beside Gabriel, calm, competent, his presence a steady anchor against the urgency of the moment. Genevieve barely paused, weaving through the hall as she stepped into the chilled night air once more, her slippers damp against the dewy ground. Gabriel had toldher to go inside and stay, but she would not stand by helplessly and allow her husband to fight the battle against the flames alone.
The fire was visible now. She could see glowing embers casting an eerie light just beyond the stable yard, illuminating the frantic figures of men forming an organized line. It was not in the stable itself, nor near any lanterns or usual fire sources. It had started in the hay bales stacked near the far fence, almost as if someone had intended to keep it hidden until it was too late to stop it. Had it been deliberate, just like the girth straps had been?
“Form a brigade,” he said. “Keep water moving toward the flames. Do not waste a drop.”
The men obeyed without pause. Buckets traveled swiftly between hands, the dirt near the bales turning slick beneath the rush of water being poured over the fire. The flames hissed as they met the weight of the deluge, steam rising in twisting curls against the night sky.
