smoky blue eyes.
His lips brushed hers. They were soft, like the petals of the roses the donkeys were eating, and he wanted to eat her, all of her…He rubbed his lips across hers again, stronger now. But she didn’t say anything, or make a sound, so he let his lips wander down from that little curve in the corner of her mouth, thinking of her neck, that creamy soft neck, but he didn’t want to leave. So he came back and she parted her lips a little and he slipped in between one breath and the next.
And then he had her in his arms, cradling her, and the air was thick with the smell of roses and their tongues were tangling. Her mouth was hot and not at all like that of an innocent maiden but rather – He pushed aside the memory of his first kiss with Bess, a friendly milkmaid. Because this kiss was nothing like Bess’s, had nothing in common with Bess’s…
Annabel had her arms around his neck before she knew what was happening, before she realised that her heart was beating so rapidly that she couldn’t breathe – that must be why she couldn’t breathe – because she couldn’t. Breathe, that is. Not with the way he was kissing her, as if time had stopped and there was nothing left in the world but the King and Queen of May and a cart full of flowers.
Perhaps it was because he was Scots. He kissed long and slow, and there was none of the jostling sense she’d had from Englishmen, as if they kissed while thinking about how to get hold of one of her breasts and wring it like a pump handle. Ardmore’s hands were on her back, but they hadn’t moved since drawing her close, and he didn’t seem to have anything else in mind than the slow tangle of their tongues. It was almost maddening.
In fact, it was maddening. Annabel had been in London for precisely two months, and she’d already been kissed by several men. All of whom punctiliously asked Rafe for her hand in marriage. But their kisses were enough to make her reject their proposals. They pawed and breathed hard, and she couldn’t see sharing a bed with someone who sounded asthmatic.
As far as she could see, Ardmore had the opposite response to her. Here they were, just sitting and kissing, and kissing, and her blood was racing but he seemed as calm as ever. He had those great labourer’s hands spread on her back but he didn’t pull her close to him. And yet she – she – she felt boneless and as if she were about to slump against his chest.
The inequality was unnerving. She pulled back. When he opened his eyes, she revised her idea that he was untouched by the kiss, because there was something deep and hot in his eyes that sent a tingle straight down her thighs. ‘We must return,’ she said, keeping her hands around his neck.
He didn’t even say anything, just smiled his lazy Scottish smile and bent his head to hers again. And she couldn’t help it: she opened her mouth to him and he started kissing her again. And now she could see the attraction of just kissing. Just letting his tongue…well. She was trembling. Trembling from a kiss.
This time he pulled back. And his eyes were even darker and wilder but he had a thoughtful look too. ‘Will you marry me?’ he said. His hands still hadn’t moved from her back.
‘No,’ Annabel said, feeling a pang of regret. It’d be nice to marry a man who kissed so well. But kissing wasn’t a prerequisite for marriage, and money was.
He didn’t say anything, just looked at her. ‘I spent years dreaming of getting out of Scotland,’ she said awkwardly, not wanting to mention money because it – was too – unpleasant.
He nodded. ‘I’ve seen that happen with lads in the village.’
‘Well, then,’ she said.
He looked at her once more. ‘Are you sure? Because I won’t ask you again. I need to finish this marriage business and return home.’
She smiled at that. ‘I am sure.’
‘You could never marry a Scotsman.’
‘No.’
‘I regret your decision.’
Then they were back in the garden, and Imogen was waiting for them. Her eyes were alight with a brilliant glow that made Annabel uneasy just to see her. But she looked exquisite, like a black-haired princess in a fairy tale.
Before Annabel quite knew what had happened, the King of May had wandered off on the arm of her sister without a backward glance. Annabel took off the wreath of flowers and tossed it into the pony cart.
Two gentlemen bounded up to her like overgrown hounds and demanded the pleasure of bringing the Queen of May to the pavilion for supper.
Willy-nilly, she glanced over her shoulder. Ardmore had got himself between Lady Griselda and Imogen now. He was bending his head toward Griselda.
‘I’d love to come,’ she said coolly. ‘Why don’t you both escort me?’
They bobbed around her, showing every sign of men who would kiss and grab, kiss and pant. Englishmen, both of them.
Ewan had almost made up his mind. The one lass he could truly fancy didn’t want him, or so she said. And he had enough sense to know that dragging a woman back to Scotland when she was bent on marrying an Englishman with a title was not a good start to a marriage. But the black-haired Imogen had such potent despair in her eyes that he felt it in the pit of his stomach.
Even now she seemed determined to drag him off to some solitary bench, as if he were a prize pig at the fair. He didn’t mind, as long as all those tears she was saving didn’t overflow and drown the two of them. She would be a good choice for wife, surely. She was beautiful, and if he gave her time to recover from her grief, she’d likely be a pleasant partner in all respects. He certainly didn’t want a wife who started increasing on the spot: he had more than enough to do without worrying about children for a few years.
All in all, Imogen seemed a suitable alternative. Of course, her guardian was fiercely against the idea, but perhaps the duke would be more amenable on seeing how much his ward wanted to marry him. Why, she looked at him as if she wanted nothing more than to bed him on the spot. She must be desperate to return to Scotland.
He could appreciate it; he felt the same way. London was nothing more than a smoky, smelly mess. His carriage had become tangled in traffic that morning and they ended up standing still as a stock for over an hour.
This party wasn’t so bad. But all the high-pitched voices and the repeated shrilling of trumpets were like to give him a headache, if he’d been prone to them. Likely it was a rain-soaked day in Scotland, the kind where you can almost see the lush grass reaching up to meet the branches of trees. And the only sound would be the rain, and perhaps a bird singing, and it would seem as if the very dog daisies were praising God for the beauty of it all. For a moment he closed his eyes, but –
‘Lord Ardmore,’ she was saying, and the misery in her voice was written plain. The poor lass was in a bad way.
He opened his eyes and looked down at her. Imogen, her name was. Imogen, Lady Maitland. He felt a spark of gratitude at being able to remember. ‘Lady Maitland,’ he said.
‘I’d like to speak to you privately, if I may.’
‘Of course. There’s a bit of land down at the bottom of the garden that’s marshy and less frequented by all these folk,’ he told her.
She gave him a dewy smile that almost had him convinced that she was longing for him to drag her down there and have his way with her. ‘How very astute of you to remark the place,’ she cooed.
He thought about defending himself – after all, he hadn’t been searching out trysting places – but gave up. Instead he held out his arm and they tripped along together in silence.
‘Has your husband been gone long?’ he asked. For all his reasoning that she would be a good candidate for marriage, he felt a queer reluctance to deepen the conversation.
‘Long