All too soon, however, His Grace stopped. Blinking blearily, Bronwyn looked around. They were by the back wall of the garden, ivy-covered bricks and a wrought-iron bench on one side and several well-placed bushes on the other, making it as secluded as anyplace could be.
Gently he turned her to face him. His amber eyes had a strange light to them as he stared at her lips.
Her mouth went dry.
“We have much to discuss, you and I,” he murmured, a peculiar tension threading his voice. “But first, I do believe it is customary to seal our engagement with a kiss?”
Before she could think to respond, he lowered his head.
Whatever fears had been simmering in her brain were forgotten at the feel of his lips on hers. How was it possible, she thought in the one corner of her brain still capable of coherency, that something could feel firm and soft all at once?
Then he tilted his head, deepening the kiss as his arms came about her, dragging her against the hard length of his body. The last of her mental faculties disappeared into the ether and her body came alive. Perhaps, just perhaps, being married to this man might not be so bad after all.
Chapter 7
Ash hadn’t intended on kissing Miss Pickering when he had first suggested they take a walk. He truly had intended to just talk. To give her the space and time she needed to come to terms with what was quickly—much more quickly than he had thought possible—progressing for their futures. After all, the woman had looked as if she was about to keel over on the spot.
But then he had found this private little space in the garden, and had looked down at her lovely, flushed face, and all his previous intentions fled. At least momentarily. He would come back to them, eventually. For now, though, the only thing he could even contemplate doing was tasting her lips.
Which was quite possibly the most brilliant idea he had ever had in his life.
By God, but her lips were soft, just barely pressing against his own, a tentative exploration. He pulled her body flush to his and felt the soft, slight curves give to him, and very nearly groaned. He gently pressed his tongue to the chaste line of her lips. How was it that one small, fierce woman could affect him so deeply? But then she gasped, and their tongues touched, and there was no more room to wonder. She tasted of sunshine and warmth and coming home. And he needed more.
He splayed his hands against her back, achingly aware of the graceful arch of her spine beneath the layers of fabric, the tips of his fingers just barely brushing the top of her buttocks. She arched into him, a small sound purring from the back of her throat, her hands gripping tight to his shoulders, as if she were afraid of being swept away in a raging current. She was small and slender, her form angular and slight of curve. Yet there was nothing at all childish about her. He breathed her in, luxuriating in the scent of lemon with just the faintest hint of sweetness to soften it. Like the most delectable lemonade on a hot day. Like Bronwyn herself, sharp yet utterly delicious.
What he wouldn’t give to explore her to his heart’s content, to trace every line of her body, to draw more of those sweet sounds from her lips. But no, he reminded himself severely as he forcibly pulled back, theirs was not a romantic union.
Even so, he could not help but gaze down at her, longing warring with sense in his chest. She remained unmoving, face lifted and eyes closed, and he allowed himself to drink in her features. Her face was long and narrow, her nose pert and pointed, her jaw strong and revealing a stubbornness he felt deep down he had only seen the beginnings of. Her lids fluttered up, revealing those lovely, brilliant turquoise eyes behind the lenses of her spectacles. For a moment he allowed himself to swim in the depths of those eyes. Had she been as affected as he had by that kiss? As simple as it had been, it had shaken him down to his core.
In the next moment her expression cleared and she stepped back. Nervous hands went to her skirts, smoothing the dull green fabric. “I’m afraid, Your Grace,” she said in a trembling voice, “that no amount of kissing can prevent us from having a very necessary conversation about your identity, and what it is you expect from this marriage.”
No matter that there could be nothing between them, Ash wouldn’t mind trying to distract her in such a manner once more. But she was right, this conversation was long overdue.
“Of course. But won’t you call me Ash?” At the doubt in her gaze, he continued in a softer tone. “We are to be married after all.”
Her cheeks, already flushed from his kiss, burned a bright pink. “Very well…Ash.”
My God, how was it possible that his name on her lips, one short syllable, a mere three letters, could sound so utterly decadent? Clearing his throat, he swept out a hand toward the nearby bench.
She sat, quickly tucking herself into the farthest corner, making herself as small as she was able. He sat gingerly beside her, feeling she might bolt if he moved wrong. Goodness knew she looked like a nervous bird, perched as if ready to take flight.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I am from the very moment we met,” he began. “It was inexcusable of me.”
She appeared shocked at his apology, before her features quickly rearranged to cool censure. “How long did you expect to keep it from me? You asked me tomarryyou, after all. Such things can’t usually be kept from a spouse.”
“I never intended to mislead you. But then my wards introduced me as Mr. Hawkins, and for reasons I cannot fully recall I went along with it.”And when I proposed I wanted you to accept me for who I am, not my title. The words hovered on his tongue. But he could not let them loose. They revealed a vulnerability he had not shown to anyone since his mother’s death.
She studied him, as if searching for the truth in his words, and he felt inexplicably as if he were one of her insects being peered at beneath a magnifying lens.
“What else have you lied to me about?”
The words were forceful, demanding answers. But there was an undercurrent of pain beneath the question. Once more he wondered if someone had deceived her in the past.
That same fury from before at the idea of her being hurt roared through him again, though stronger this time, and coupled with rage at himself and a deep guilt for his own deception. That guilt grew as he recalled the information he still kept from her. But no, he told himself with fierce certainty, she was not the only one he hid it from, and for good reason. That particular truth would die with him, the better to protect those innocent souls it affected most.
“Nothing,” he declared.
She speared him with a sharp glare. “Do you mean to tell me you truly are part owner in a gaming hell in London along with being a duke of the realm?”