Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he extracted a fine linen handkerchief and handed it to her.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered into his chest as she took it, her voice hoarse. “I never cry.”
“I daresay that’s because you’re much too busy doing the consoling, and not allowing others to do the same for you,” he said.
She gave a small, watery laugh. “You’re more stubborn than I am, that’s certain.”
He grinned. “Quite certain. And you’d best remember that.”
In answer she hiccuped. Then, with a sigh, she relaxed further into his embrace. Her arms stole about his middle, holding on tight. As if he were her port in the storm.
They stood that way for a time, quiet, merely holding one another. Finally she stirred and raised her head.
His breath caught in his chest. Her lashes were darkened from her tears, and incredibly long, framing the brilliant sapphire of her eyes. Eyes that seemed clear now, and miraculously free of the tight control she’d kept over herself. Then she smiled.
It was as natural as breathing to lower his head to hers. Her lips gave beneath his, soft and welcoming. This was no frantic kiss, made desperate with hot want. Though desire for her stirred in his blood, just as before when they’d kissed in London, it was the spreading warmth in his chest that overwhelmed his senses this time. It made his hands gentle where they splayed across her back, holding her close as if she were a treasure beyond worth.
And she was, so much more than he’d first assumed. There was heartache in her, and passion, the part of her that she kept hidden from the world as vast and unfathomable as the sea itself.
He cupped her cheek, deepening the kiss. As before, in the garden at Dane House, she responded with an enthusiasm that stunned him. Desire pounded swift through him. He wanted more, so much more from her.
But he couldn’t take it. Not only did he refuse to disrespect her by starting something physical with her that they could never finish, but she was emotionally vulnerable. To take advantage of that would be the grossest betrayal.
He pulled back, nearly regretting his chivalry when he caught sight of her sweetly flushed face, her kiss-bruised lips.
Her eyelids fluttered open. “We shouldn’t have done that, I’m thinking,” she whispered.
“No,” he replied softly, his thumb caressing her cheek, “we shouldn’t have.”
She smiled, then with a sigh she stepped back, untangling herself from his arms. He felt the loss down to his bones.
“I’m sorry for that,” she murmured, her eyes falling to the ground. “I truly don’t know what came over me.”
“Please don’t apologize. I don’t regret it.” He paused. “Do you?”
Her gaze met his again. “No,” she said on a breath, as if she could not quite understand it. “At least”—her lips quirked—“not yet.”
He offered his arm, and as one they left the greenhouse. “Have no fear,” he quipped. “I shan’t kiss you again. Unless you ask prettily.”
His attempt at humor was meant to lighten the mood, and he was rewarded with her small smile. “You shall have a long wait, then. For I’m not planning on asking, ever.”
I’m counting on that, he thought grimly. For if it was up to him, he would take her in his arms again. And this time he would never let her go.
***
“Can I refresh your drink, Clara?”
Clara smiled, passing her glass to Quincy. “Thank you.”
He gave her a wink, walking off across Danesford’s drawing room with a fluid grace that she was hard-pressed to look away from.
Aunt Olivia leaned in close, a sly look in her eyes. “That boy is utterly smitten, it seems.”
“Yes,” Clara murmured with a blush that was not feigned in the least.
It had been a week since the trip to Swallowhill. A week since their second kiss, one that had been tender and beautiful and had effectively undermined whatever defenses she’d managed to hold on to after that first devastating kiss in London. A week since she’d cried herself out in his arms…
Of the two, the latter had been the more intimate. She had held so tightly to her emotions for so long it had been the sweetest release, made all the more beautiful because she had been comforted by Quincy. If she had acted in such a way with anyone else, they would have pressured her to reveal what had upset her. Quincy, however, had merely held her, letting her cry without judgment or questions.