Her eyelids dropped, veiling her gaze. He felt the moist heat of her tongue against his thumb.
He caught his breath. “Were you found, fully formed, in some ancient spot? I fancy you as one of the fey, strange and wild, and completely enticing to a human male.”
“My father was a simple Englishman. He would’ve scoffed at the thought of fairies.”
“And your mother?”
“She was from Prussia and even more pragmatic than he.” She sighed softly, her breath brushing his flesh. “I am no romantic maiden. Just a plain Englishwoman.”
He very much doubted that.
He took his hand away, caressing her cheek as it left. “Did you grow up in London or in the country?”
“The country, mostly, though we came to London to visit at least yearly.”
“And did you have playmates? Sweet girls to whisper and giggle with?”
“Emeline.” Her eyes met his, and there was a vulnerability there.
Emeline lived in the American Colonies now. “You miss her.”
Eont size="3">“Yes.”
He brought the rose up to absently brush her bare neck as he tried to remember details of Emeline’s childhood. “But you did not know her until you were nearly out of the schoolroom, yes? My family estates adjoin hers, and I have known both her and her brother, Reynaud, since the nursery. I would’ve remembered you had you been with Emeline then.”
“Would you?” Her eyes flashed with anger, but she continued before he could make a defense. “I met Emeline when I came to visit a friend in the area. I was fourteen or fifteen.”
“And before that? Who did you play with? Your brothers?” He watched as the rose brushed her collarbone, then moved lower.
She shrugged. The rose must tickle, but she didn’t bat it away. “My brothers are older than I. They were both away at school when I was in the nursery.”
“Then you were alone.” He held her gaze as the rose dipped between the upper curve of her breasts.
She bit her lip. “I had a nanny.”
“Not the same as a playmate,” he murmured.
“Perhaps not,” she conceded.
When she inhaled, her breasts pressed a little against the rose. O, fortunate flower!
“You were a quiet child,” he said, because he knew it must be true.
Even with the stories he’d heard yesterday from her aunt, he knew in the main that she would’ve been a quiet child. A nearly silent child. She held herself contained. Her limbs under strict control, her body small and neat, even though she wasn’t a little woman. Her voice was always well modulated, and she stayed at the back of gatherings. What childhood had made her so determined not to be noticed?
He leaned closer to her, and even though the sweet scent of roses surrounded them, he smelled spicy oranges. Her scent. “You were a child who kept her inner thoughts secret from the world.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know me.”
“No,” he conceded. “But I want to know you. I want to learn you until the workings of your mind are as familiar to me as I am to myself.”
She drew in her breath, pulling back almost as if in fear. “I will not become—”
But he laid a finger against her lips and then quickly straightened away again. He could hear voices on the path they’d just come from. A moment more and another couple rounded the corner.
“Pardon,” the gentleman said, and at the same time Jasper realized it was Matthew Horn. “Vale. I had not thought to meet you here.”
Jasper bowed with irony. “I have always found it instructive to walk my mother’s gardens. Just this afternoon, I have been able to teach my wife the difference between a peony plant and an iris.”