Regency Surrender: Notorious Secrets. Marguerite Kaye
mossy stone bench was positioned under a yew which had been clipped into an arch. He had come out without a coat, and now rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The contrast between his pale right arm and tanned left was stark. It was not only the colour, but he had clearly lost muscle.
‘It must have been a very bad break to have kept your arm in a splint for so long.’ Without realising, Celeste had reached out to touch him. She snatched her hand away.
‘Why did you stay at the lakeside this morning?’ Jack asked. ‘You’ve as much as admitted you should have left the moment you saw me. What made you stay?’
The bench was small. His leather-clad thigh brushed hers, and his knee too, for he had angled himself to face her. ‘I am an artist,’ Celeste said, her voice sounding odd. ‘You made an interesting subject.’
‘Did you draw me, then?’
His hand covered hers, which were clasped on her lap. Her heart began to thump. ‘There was no time,’ she said.
‘Yet you insist you were watching me purely with the eye of an artist?’
His thumb was stroking her wrist, so lightly she wondered if he was even aware he was doing it. The tension between them became palpable. Beguiled as much by her own new-found desire as by Jack’s proximity, Celeste could think of nothing to say but the truth. ‘I watched you because I could not take my eyes off you. I was fascinated.’
His eyes darkened. His hands slid up to her shoulders. She leaned into him as he pulled her towards him. It started so gently. Soft. Delicate. Celeste leant closer. The kiss deepened. She could feel the damp of his shirt and the heat of his skin beneath it. A drop of perspiration trickled down between her breasts, and she felt a sharp twist of pure desire.
She curled her fingers into his hair. Their tongues touched. Jack moaned, a guttural sound that precisely echoed how she felt, filled with longing, and aching and heat. Their kiss became fierce. He bent her backwards on the bench, his body hovering over hers, blocking out the sunlight. He smelt of soap and sweet summer sweat. His legs were tangled in her skirts. Only his arms, planted either side of her, prevented her from falling.
She was also in danger of falling, metaphorically speaking, from a far greater height if she was not extremely careful. Celeste snapped to her senses. Jerking herself free, she sat up. Jack’s cheeks were flushed. His hair was in wild disarray. His shirt was falling open at the neck to reveal his tanned throat. The soft linen clung to his frame, revealing tantalising glimpses of the hard body underneath. She wanted more. It was good that she wanted more, but with this man! No, she must be out of her mind.
She edged a little way along the bench, shaking out her skirts. ‘I hope you are not expecting me to faint?’ she asked more sharply than she intended.
‘Despite our extremely brief acquaintance you do not strike me as someone much given to histrionics.’
‘You are perfectly correct, I am not. Even when kissing complete strangers.’
‘Not quite complete strangers, Mademoiselle. We have at least been formally introduced.’ Jack shook his head, as if trying to clear the dazed look from his eyes. ‘I apologise,’ he said tersely. ‘I have no idea what came over me. I’m not in the habit of mauling innocent women, especially not when they are my brother’s guests.’
‘Your brother’s landscape artist, not his guest, and I am neither innocent nor inclined to accept an apology for something that was as much my doing as yours,’ Celeste snapped, unduly irked by his assumption that it was all his responsibility. She was relieved to discover she could feel this way again, but she really wished it had not been this maddening man who had sparked her back to life. She picked up her sketch pad and charcoals, trying to regain her composure. ‘It was just a kiss, nothing more,’ she said, because that was all it was, after all.
‘Just a kiss?’ Jack repeated, still looking stunned. ‘Is that what you really think?’
She did not. She thought—not very clearly, admittedly—that it was the most extraordinary kiss she had ever experienced. She thought, looking at him now, that she would very much like to kiss him again, but she was not about to admit that. ‘Very well,’ Celeste conceded, ‘an excellent kiss, though I suspect that abstinence may have contributed to its intensity.’
He flushed dark red. ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’
Celeste took a step back. ‘Not that it is any of your business, but I have not been inclined to kiss anyone for—for some time.’
His expression softened a little. ‘Ah, you are referring to your own abstinence?’
‘What else would I have implied?’ Celeste said, thoroughly confused. He could not possibly have thought she referred to him? There could be no shortage of women eager and willing to kiss Jack Trestain. Then she remembered. ‘Oh, you mean you have been incapacitated by your recent poor health.’
A perfectly understandable explanation, and no reason whatsoever for him to flinch as if she had hit him. Yet that is exactly what he did, before abruptly turning on his heels and marching off. Utterly confounded now, she watched his long legs cover the ground quickly, back through the gate, along the grass walk to the rose garden. He did not look back.
Celeste slumped down on the stone bench. While her mind struggled to make sense of what had happened, her body was very clear in its response. What they had shared had been much more than just a kiss. It had been an awakening, a stirring of something that she hadn’t realised had been so utterly dormant.
Her last affaire had ended not long before she had received that letter. It had ended as her affaires always did, without tears or remorse, while it had still been mutually enjoyable, before it could degenerate into boredom, or worse still, the expectation of a future. Not that she’d ever allowed any of her few love affairs to reach that stage. Not that a single one of them had evoked an emotion even close to love in her.
Celeste began to turn the pages of her sketchbook. Love was a subject she knew little about. On the topic of being loveless however, she was something of an expert. It defined her upbringing. It defined her mother’s marriage. Or it had. She snapped the leather covers shut. Ever since she’d received that damned letter, she’d been losing control in all sorts of odd ways. She snapped at the stupidest of things. She couldn’t concentrate on her work. And now this! It was just a kiss, for heaven’s sake. She was overwrought. She had not kissed anyone for a long time. Jack was a very accomplished kisser. Jack, for whatever reason, seemed to find the whole process of kissing her even more unsettling than she had. She would very much like to repeat the process of kissing Jack, if only to prove that it was just a kiss, enhanced by abstinence, just as she’d suggested. Her own.
And as for her suggestion regarding his? Why had he taken such umbrage at her perfectly reasonable assumption? Celeste rolled her eyes. Jack Trestain was an enigma, and one that she had no time to decipher.
* * *
‘There you are, my love. I have been looking for you all over.’
Jack, who had been sleeping on the recessed seat in the nook of the fireplace, woke with a start and looked around him, quite disoriented.
‘Charles,’ Eleanor was saying, ‘I am writing to my mother. We have such a glut of plums and damsons I thought it would be a good idea to pickle some rather than simply bottle them, and Mama has an excellent receipt. How went your meeting with the lawyer?’
Jack had quite forgotten the trick of acoustics between this room and the one below. His head, resting against the fireplace, was in the precise spot which amplified the voices. He and Charlie had discovered it as boys, and had spent hours talking to each other, one of them in each room. The Laird’s Lug, their Auntie Kirsty had told them it was known as in Scottish castles, a way for the master of the house to eavesdrop on his family and his servants, though Jack reckoned this one at Trestain Manor existed more by accident than design.
Charlie and Eleanor were discussing estate business now, in that domestic, familiar way