Quincy gave her a curious look but did as he was bid, expertly weaving them through the thickening crowd of dancers. Once they reached the edge of the dance floor she broke from his embrace, taking hold of his hand and pulling him out the doors into the night beyond.
The balcony was blessedly empty, any guests who had taken advantage of the cool night air having been lured back to the ballroom by Peter’s announcement. There was not a single person to act as witness as she dragged Quincy down the stone steps to the garden beyond.
Between the bright moon and the lantern light it was a simple thing to locate the small alcove nestled between towering box hedges. Secluded and quiet as it was, with its small stone seat, it was yet another place in the garden she had escaped to in her early days in London. She gave a small sigh of relief when they were safely inside.
“Now we may talk freely,” she said as she spun to face Quincy.
Only she hadn’t realized how close he was to her. Or how intimate the darkness would be. The sounds from the ballroom were hushed behind the dense hedge, cool blue moonlight barely reaching to where they stood. Everything was leached of color, shadows surrounding them, closing them in. Yet the night had never been more alive. Her heart pounded out a desperate rhythm in her chest, the sound of it drowned out only by the harsh rasp of their combined breaths. Her overly sensitive skin reacted to every brush of the faint breeze, to every wave of heat emanating from him. The soap-and-sandalwood scent of him enveloped her, combining with the rich earth and foliage, and the faint scent of roses. It was a heady perfume that had her mind swimming. She swayed.
His hands were suddenly at her waist. She gasped softly, planting her palms on the broad expanse of his chest, an attempt to steady her wildly spinning head. But nothing would help with that; she was quite lost in that regard.
The heat of his skin seeped into her gloved fingers through his tailored coat and waistcoat and fine linen shirt, the pounding of his heart making her palms tingle. Her gaze, which had been centered on the strong column of his throat, tripped up over his square chin, over the generous curve of his lips and his aquiline nose to find his eyes. They glittered down at her, seeming to hold all the brightness of the stars, all the brilliance of the moon.
“Oh,” she breathed.
He cleared his throat, tried to speak, cleared his throat again. “Why are we out here?” he asked, his voice hoarse. His breath, warm and still sweet from the champagne he had drunk, further scrambled her already addled thoughts.
“I…I don’t recall,” she managed.
He let loose a small, breathless laugh. “Me neither.”
She swallowed hard. “Mayhap we’d best return.”
“Mayhap,” he whispered. Yet his fingers tightened on her waist, drawing her closer until her breasts brushed his chest.
Desire, stronger than any she had ever felt, shot through her, pooling between her thighs. It left her shaken. She sucked in a sharp breath, hoping the cool night air would help to free her from the spell of him. But it only managed to make the scent of him more potent. Her fingers curled around his lapels, tethering her to him as surely as any chain.
Suddenly his eyes, which had grown heavy-lidded and hot in the shadows, cleared, his gaze sharpening. A low curse escaped his lips. She blinked, cheeks heating, and made to pull away.
When she heard the voices, coming closer, her eyes widened and her grip on him tightened again. She looked up into his face, saw the same panic there that was coursing through her. Being found together would be understood; their engagement had just been announced, after all. The rules were relaxed for betrothed couples, allowing them much more freedom to enjoy one another’s company.
But they were planning to end their engagement. And being seen giving her favors to Quincy would only make the scandal when they broke things off so much worse.
The couple—for indeed it was a man and woman, talking in hushed voices—came even closer. Clara could hear their steps on the gravel path, a small giggle, a low rumble of male voice. She cast her eyes about their small space, looking for any way to disguise themselves. But save for the stone bench, hardly large enough for one person to sit upon, much less two people to hide under, they would be quite exposed when the couple passed by.
She looked up at Quincy and saw intense determination fill his face. Before she could make sense of it, he pivoted their bodies so his back was to the path. When it became apparent that even that could not completely conceal her identity, he cradled her face in his large hands and lowered his head to hers.
The moment his lips touched hers the world exploded in color and sensation. Molten fire seared her from the inside out, burning her defenses to ash, releasing the passions and desires she had so carefully hidden away. She gasped, her fingers finding his broad shoulders, and she held on tight, as if he could save her from the flames that licked at her. When all along he had been the one lighting the spark.
He stilled, his shock palpable. Embarrassment, immediate and staggering in its intensity, tore through her. Of course he would be taken aback by her reaction. This was an attempt to escape from detection, camouflaging them as just another amorous couple hiding in the bushes. It was in no way due to any desire he felt for her. She made to pull away, desperate to escape.
His low groan stopped her. And then his mouth opened over hers, the kiss deepening, and she was lost.
Ah, God, how good it felt to be held. Even as the thought flitted through her mind, she knew it was not just a need to be held that had her reacting thus. No, it was because Quincy was the one holding her. His arms stole around her, dragging her flush to the hard planes of his body. She arched up into him, the need in her so great she thought she’d weep from it. Gone was the fear and pain and heartache of the past decade and a half. She felt reborn, a phoenix rising from the destruction.
His tongue pressed against the barrier of her lips, a plea that was incredibly gentle for all the strength and barely leashed power apparent in every inch of his body. She opened to him readily, shuddering as his tongue touched her own. He growled into her mouth, the vibration of it rippling through every nerve in her body. Their tongues clashed, his hands splaying across her back, moving down to cup her bottom, pressing her up into his hardness.
“Oops! Someone has beaten us to this alcove, my sweet.”
The strange voice, jarring and much too close, was like a bucket of ice water, cooling Clara’s raging passions in a moment. She stilled, every muscle in her body going rigid as the sounds of giggling and footsteps receded.
Quincy, too, stilled beneath her hands. Yet neither of them pulled away. She wasn’t certain what kept Quincy’s arm tight about her. For Clara, it was mortification, plain and simple. She could not bear to look up into his face, to see the pity that surely must be filling it. What else would he be thinking, after her little performance? The passion-starved spinster, clinging to him like a limpet, so eager for any bit of physical affection that she had lost all control.
He was the first to move. No wonder; if she could have buried her face in his chest for the rest of eternity to keep him from seeing her embarrassment, she would have done so, and gladly. Clearing his throat, he said, “Well, that worked beautifully, didn’t it?”
She couldn’t even manage a nod in response, closing her eyes tight. How sad he must think her.
Again he cleared his throat. “I suppose we should get back to the ball.”