He stroked the curve of her cheek with a single fingertip, so carefully, as if she were a wild creature that would bolt at the slightest sign of haste. Her breath quickened as he touched her chin and tilted her head back in an angle of surrender.
His gentle mouth descended to hers, molding, coaxing, until she parted her lips with a gasp of pleasure. The tip of his tongue stroked the edge of her teeth, ventured farther, brushed the inside of her cheek in a burning, delicate exploration. The kiss made her light-headed, and she wrapped her arms around his neck in a desperate bid for balance. He let her have more of his weight, pinning her securely between his body and the unyielding oak at her back. She twisted and pulled at him, until he made a soothing noise and ran his hands down her back. The slow caress only sharpened her need, making her arch against him in a blind, instinctive search. She felt something against the fabric of her rough-woven skirt...the intimate bulge of his sex.
The rigid length of him matched perfectly in the notch between her thighs. His hardness pressed into her softness, his mouth possessed hers with wicked skill, while his arms surrounded her. Sliding her hands into his hair, she curved her fingers around his scalp, beneath the thick locks that gleamed like silk in the fragmented moonlight. A harsh breath escaped him, and his lips slid along her throat. Even in her innocence, she sensed the wealth of experience in his careful touch, the hunger he kept so tightly shackled.
Her peasant blouse had slipped over one shoulder, revealing the white gleam of her skin. His fingers stole to the ribbon of her gathered neckline and tugged deftly, causing the crumpled linen to slide downward. Gradually his hand eased beneath her chemise. Her cool, soft nipple tightened against the calloused pads of his fingers, the peak turning harder and warmer with each circling stroke.
Lottie pressed her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder. She had to stop him now, before her will was completely demolished. 'No. Please stop. I'm sorry.'
His hand slid from her blouse, and he touched her damp lips with his fingers. 'Have I frightened you?' he whispered.
Lottie shook her head, somehow resisting the urge to curl into his embrace like a sun-warmed cat. 'No...I've frightened myself.'
For some reason her admission made him smile. His fingers moved to her throat, tracing the fragile line with a sensitivity that made her breath catch. Tugging the peasant blouse back up to her shoulder, he retied the frayed ribbon that secured the neckline. 'Then I'll stop,' he said. 'Come-I'll take you to the house.'
He stayed close to her as they continued through the forest, occasionally moving to push a branch out of the way, or taking her hand to guide her over a rough place on the path. As familiar as she was with the woods of Stony Cross Park, Lottie had no need of his assistance. But she accepted the help with demur. And she did not protest when he paused again, his lips finding hers easily in the darkness. His mouth was hot and sweet as he kissed her compulsively...swift kisses, languid ones, kisses that ranged from intense need to wicked flirtation. Drugged with pleasure, Lottie let her hands wander to the thick dishevelment of his hair, the iron-hard nape of his neck. When the blistering heat rose to an untenable degree, Lord Sydney groaned softly.
'Charlotte...'
'Lottie,' she told him breathlessly.
He pressed his lips to her temple and cuddled her against his powerful body as if she were infinitely fragile. 'I never thought I would find someone like you,' he whispered. 'I've looked for you so long...needed you...'
Lottie shivered and dropped her head to his shoulder. 'This isn't real,' she said faintly.
His lips touched her neck, finding a place that made her arch involuntarily. 'What's real, then?'
She gestured to the yew hedge that bordered the estate garden. 'Everything back there.'
His arms tightened, and he spoke in a muffled voice. 'Let me come to your room. Just for a little while.'
Lottie responded with a trembling laugh, knowing exactly what would happen if she allowed that. 'Absolutely not.'
Soft, hot kisses drifted over her skin. 'You're safe with me. I would never ask for more than you were willing to give.'
Lottie closed her eyes, her head spinning. 'The problem is,' she said ruefully, 'I am willing to give you entirely too much.'
She felt the curve of his smile against her cheek. 'Is that a problem?'
'Oh, yes.' Pulling away from him, Lottie held her hands to her hot face and sighed unsteadily. 'We must stop this. I don't trust myself with you.'
'You shouldn't,' he agreed hoarsely.
The sounds of their breathing mingled in the darkness. He was so warm and strong that Lottie could barely keep from flinging herself at him. Instead she forced herself to think rationally. Lord Sydney would be gone soon, and the memory of this night would fade in time. She was not so weak-willed, or foolish, that she could be so easily seduced.
'At least let me walk with you to the house,' Lord Sydney urged. 'If we are seen together, you can explain it as a chance meeting.'
Lottie hesitated, then nodded. 'And we'll part company at the back terrace?'
'Yes.' Offering her his arm, Lord Sydney accompanied her to the double-sided stone staircase at the back of the manor. They were both silent as they ascended to the terrace that overlooked the main gardens. Abundant light from the great hall shone through the glittering multipaned windows and French doors. The terrace, often the location for guests to smoke and drink port, was unoccupied, as nearly everyone was either in the village or playing cards and billiards inside.
A lone figure relaxed in a chair by the railing. He drew lazily on a cigar, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that drifted in the air like a vanishing wraith. The scent of expensive tobacco tickled Lottie's nostrils as she reached the top step.
Her stomach flipped uneasily as she realized who the man was.
'Lord Westcliff,' she murmured, curtsying automatically. Uneasily she wondered what he would make of the fact that she was accompanied by Lord Sydney.
The earl remained seated as he surveyed the two of them. The refracted light from the windows gleamed on his coal black hair and cast angular shadows across his blunt, strong features. 'Miss Miller,' he said in his gravelly voice, and nodded coolly to her companion. 'Sydney. What convenient timing. There is a matter that I wish to take up with you.'
Certain that her employer was displeased with her, Lottie lowered her gaze to the stone flagging of the terrace. 'My lord, forgive me. I went to watch the festival in the village, and-'
'You did more than watch, it appears,' Lord Westcliff observed mildly, his keen gaze sweeping over her rustic attire.
'Yes, I took part in the Maypole dance. And Lord Sydney offered to escort me home-'
'Of course he did,' the earl said sardonically, taking another pull on his cigar. Blue-gray smoke whirled and eddied upward. 'There is no need to look so distressed, Miss Miller. As far as I am concerned, you are not prohibited from seeking entertainment in the village-although it would doubtless be wise not to mention such activities to the dowager countess.' He gestured with his cigar. 'You may go now, while I discuss a few things with Lord Sydney.'
Lottie nodded in cautious relief. 'Yes, sir.' As she began to depart, she was astonished to feel Lord Sydney's light, restraining hand on her arm.
'Wait.'
Lottie froze in utter confusion, her face flooding with color. She could not believe that he had dared to touch her in front of the earl. 'My lord,' she murmured in protest.
Sydney did not return her glance; his gaze was fixed intently on the earl's harsh features. 'Before Miss Miller takes her leave, you had better tell me what this is about.'
'This is about your so-called family,' Lord Westcliff said softly. 'And your so-called past.' The quiet words rang with condemnation. Lottie realized from the earl's expression that something was very wrong. If any warmth had lingered from the enchanted moments in the forest, it vanished abruptly.
Bewildered, she stared at Lord Sydney. His face had changed somehow, no longer quite so handsome, but suddenly hard and cold. To behold him now, one would believe that this man was capable of anything. Suddenly, she could not believe that a few minutes ago she had kissed that stern mouth, that his hands had caressed her intimately. When he spoke, even his voice sounded different, his accent a bit coarser. The aristocratic veneer had
