She gave an infinitesimal shrug, took his gloves and slid her hands into them. They were, of course, much too big, but at least they would be warm. “Now”—he was about to offer his arm, but thought better of it; he didn’t need the contact—“after you.” He gestured, and she stepped before him onto the narrow path.
They walked in silence, the sounds of their footsteps and the faint scuttles and far-off cries of wild creatures of the night all that accompanied them. And thoughts, tumbling, nagging, roiling . . .
Suddenly she stopped, turned to face him and said, “Was it me?”
For a moment he didn’t understand. “What?”
Her face was pale and intent in the moonlight. “Why you stopped. Did I do it wrong?”
He closed his eyes. Christ! He swallowed. “No. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She waited for him to explain further, but he couldn’t bring himself to say another word. And if she stood there much longer, looking up at him with those big fathomless eyes, biting down on those soft lips, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.
“It’s late. Keep moving.” It sounded harsh, but it was for the best. Her best.
Some expression quivered in her face, too fleeting for him to grasp, then she turned and resumed the walk. The path was wider now, a worn dirt track. Going downhill she skidded a little in the mud, and he leapt forward and seized her arm, preventing her from falling.
“Hold on to me,” he told her. It was an order.
She gave him a look he couldn’t read, then slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. A knot deep within him eased.
Chapter Seven
Lady you bereft me of all words,
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins,
And there is such confusion in my powers.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
They walked in silence. Lily didn’t feel the slightest bit cold, and it had nothing to do with his gloves or her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. Her whole body was alive and zinging. She darted a sideways glance at the stern profile of the tall man striding along beside her. What was he thinking? Why had he stopped kissing her, just when it was getting so . . . delicious?
Questions clattered in her brain like a tree full of starlings at dusk. Did he not want to kiss her? Had she thrown herself at him? She thought back over the events of the night. She might have. She hadn’t meant to.
An owl with expensive tastes. It wasn’t even that funny, but she hadn’t just laughed at Edward’s little joke, she’d ended up clinging to him, laughing like a madwoman. And crying at the same time. So embarrassing. Who’d want to kiss a madwoman?
But he had. And then, This is wrong. A mistake. In such a harsh voice.
A mistake for whom? For him? Or for her? So frustrating when people—men—made announcements and then refused to explain them.
That first brush of his mouth over hers, so light and tender—his lips were cold from the chilly night—had given her no warning of what was to come. Heat had blossomed wherever they’d touched, that . . . streak, like hot wire spiraling through her whole body.
She hadn’t known it could be like that. Intoxicating, addictive. She’d wanted more, hungered for another taste of him, even now, after he’d pushed her away.
This is wrong.
Lily’s cheeks burned. It hadn’t felt the slightest bit wrong to her. It was lovely. Her mouth was still tingling. She could have gone on kissing him for hours.
Instead he’d broken off the kiss and pushed her away. Like offering a feast to a starving beggar, then snatching it away after one taste. Not that she was a beggar. She hadn’t even known she was starving for his kiss until she’d tasted him.
Did I do it wrong? What had possessed her to blurt that out? Stupid, not to mention embarrassing. And of course he wouldn’t tell her the truth. He was a gentleman, invariably polite!
But she really wanted to know. Had she been clumsy? Lacking? It was her first kiss, after all.
She’d thought she knew what to expect of kissing—the girls at school used to discuss it endlessly. To some it was all roses and clouds and soft music—utter bliss—but to others it was awkward, disconcerting and unsavory—all wetness, teeth-and-tongues and bumping noses.
Kissing Edward was nothing like that. It was . . . like hot spiced wine, and . . . fire—oh, there were no words, only feelings. She hugged them to herself. His kiss had called to something deep within her, something almost . . . animal. A little bit frightening. And irresistibly exciting.
She’d reacted instinctively, opening her mouth to him, pressing herself against him, seeking more. Had she been too forward? Ladies weren’t supposed to encourage liberties from men. Was that it? Had her behavior disgusted him?
On the other hand, could his opinion of her get any lower? She’d met him in the most sordid manner: frantic, dizzy from drugs, wet and stinking. Then she’d thrown up in front of him, narrowly missing his boots. Then she’d stunk his carriage out so badly that he’d made her strip—and she had! Stripped right in front of him, down to her birthday suit, with only a rug between them! And after he’d tossed her clothes out onto the road, she’d fallen asleep all over him, wearing nothing but his shirt and a rug. Probably drooling on him as well.
And now she’d thrown herself at him, all because of an owl.
No, poor owl, she couldn’t blame him. It was Lily, all Lily. Because she liked Mr. Edward Galbraith a little too much.
Smoke from hearth fires hung in the air. They were nearing the village and Lily was no further enlightened. If she wanted an answer—and she did—there was only one way to find out. She’d already embarrassed herself with this man in every way possible; she had nothing else to lose.
“Explain
