And then, quite suddenly, sanity returned.
She broke away, gasping, her hands coming up between them. “I cannot—we should not?—”
“Eliza—”
“No.” She stepped back, nearly stumbling over the bench. Her hair had come loose, tumbling around her shoulders in complete disarray. Her lips felt swollen, her face hot. “This was a mistake.”
“Was it?”
She could not look at him. Could not bear to see whatever expression he wore. “I should return to the house.”
She was already moving, her feet carrying her back down the path at something just short of a run.
She reached the house, slipped inside, and climbed the stairs to her room. Only when the door was safely closed and locked behind her did she allow herself to lean against it, her breath coming in short gasps.
Her fingers came up to touch her lips, still tender from his kiss.
What had she done?
Twenty-Four
“Denton, I require more coffee. And perhaps something stronger, though I suspect it is too early for brandy.”
Eliza froze in the hallway, her hand still reaching for the dining room door. August’s voice carried through the half-open doorway, clear and unmistakable. She had hoped he might have already eaten, might have retreated to his study or ridden out to inspect the fields. She had hoped for anything, really, except this.
“I shall bring the coffee at once, Your Grace. As for the brandy, I find it is never too early when circumstances warrant.”
August laughed, and the sound sent something hot and uncomfortable through Eliza’s chest. She pressed herself against the wall, heart hammering so loudly she was certain they would hear it through the door.
“You are a wise man, Denton. I believe I shall keep you.”
“I am most gratified, Your Grace.”
Footsteps approached the door, and Eliza spun on her heel and fled back down the hallway. She did not run, precisely, but her steps were decidedly faster than a walk. She turned the corner and pressed herself into the alcove by the morning room, waiting until she heard Denton’s footsteps had faded before she dared breathe again.
This was absurd. She was being absurd. She could not spend the rest of her life hiding in alcoves simply because she had kissed her husband.
Except it had not been simply a kiss. Simply implied something casual, something easily dismissed. What had happened in the garden had been anything but simple. His hands in her hair, his mouth on hers, the way her entire body had come alive under his touch?—
No. She would not think about it. Could not think about it without her face going hot and her stomach doing complicated things that had no business being done by a properly functioning organ.
She needed tea. Or perhaps something stronger though it was too early for brandy.
The morning room was blessedly empty, and she rang for tea before settling herself in a chair by the window. The view overlooked the gardens, and she could see the path they had walked last night, could see the bench where he had kissed her.
Does our marriage have meaning?
I believe it is starting to have a purpose.
What had possessed her to say that? She should have lied, should have maintained the fiction that their marriage was purely transactional. Instead, she had told him the truth, and he had kissed her, and now, everything was impossibly complicated.
The tea arrived, and she busied herself with pouring and adding sugar. Her hands shook slightly, and she set the cup down before she could spill it all over herself.
She could not avoid him forever. They lived in the same house for heaven’s sake. They were married. Eventually, they would have to speak, to acknowledge what had happened, to decide what it meant.
But not today. Today, she would simply drink her tea, read her book, and pretend that the world was still ordered and sensible and that she had not spent half the night reliving the feeling of his mouth on hers.
She had nearly convinced herself this plan had merit when she heard footsteps in the hallway. Male footsteps, moving with purpose.