Christian strode to the window, braced his forearm on the ledge, and let his mind sink into their kiss. They’d been entangled, the scent of her storming his mind, the touch and taste of her devastating his body. His soul. When her eyes had opened for one brief moment and caught his, he’d seen something authentic and profound shimmering in their golden depths.
Christian gazed across the duke’s sloping lawn, clouds the color of pewter releasing scant light, the evergreens and hedges coated in a blustery mist. “She’s going to say yes.”
“Again, let’s hope,” Penny murmured in a drowsy voice, “after you’ve made a cake of yourself. Twice.”
“She loves me, too.” A little. I think.
“So, it’s love. Couldn’t go for one of those advantageous but loveless marriages, could you? Not your style, I suppose.” The grunt his valet released sounded resigned and mournful. “Well, well, well, you’ve let yourself be caught, my friend. This should prove enlightening. To me, in any case. Ways I can avoid the trap.”
“I want to be caught,” Christian whispered too low for Penny to hear, realizing it was the sincerest statement he’d ever uttered.
He wanted, for the first time, to own and be owned. Wanted to give Raine everything she’d dreamed of while securing his dream.
For the girl on the veranda to finally be his.
* * *
Raine dashed down the hallway, embarrassed, overjoyed, panicked. Her body blazed like one of the kitchen’s ovens, throwing off heat until she feared anyone close to her would feel it. She skidded to a halt before she entered the main hall, Mrs. Webster’s smooth voice gliding from the pantry. The scent of baking bread and roasted meat joined the dusty air rolling in the open gallery windows, though when she lifted her hand to her nose, all Raine could smell on her skin was Kit. Sandalwood and the faint scent of bergamot that must be in the soap he washed his hair with. She’d had her hand tangled in the dark strands, her lips open beneath his, their legs entwined like holly circling an elm trunk.
It had been, for one electrifying moment, what she imagined lovemaking was like.
Except, they’d been standing up.
Her face flamed, turning what she knew was an unbecoming shade of pink. Dear heaven, the man could kiss, quickly finding the way to unlock her passion. And, somehow, she’d seemed to know just how to follow along, his ragged sound of pleasure the most sensual thing she’d ever heard in her life. It had been natural, touching him, body melting against his, hands clutching to bring him closer.
When it had been impossible to get closer.
I love him. I do. I love Christian Emory Bainbridge.
Now, what to do about it?
Raine was riddled with uncertainty, debating between telling the adorable man yes or hiding until he’d repaired all the duke’s timepieces and retreated to London when Charlotte Webster, Lady Ann’s personal maid, stepped from the pantry. Newly married to Phillip, the cook’s son, Charlotte glowed like a lit candle rested inside her, her pleasant personality. She had a devilish wit that came out in only the loveliest of ways, no cuts involved, which in Raine’s experience was rare.
Charlotte would understand her dilemma; her marriage to Phillip was a love-match.
“Raine, dear, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Charlotte wiped her hands on the cloth she held and tilted her head in consideration. “Are you unwell?”
Raine knocked the frilled edge of her cap from her eyes, wondering if she looked like she’d been ravished. She felt like she had. “Do you have time for a walk? Through the gardens, perhaps? The flowers are in bloom and quite lovely.” She tangled her hands in her apron and groaned. “I have a question. A concern. About a man. A vexing, tempting, wonderful man. I’m confused and excited and, oh, so many things!”
Charlotte’s green eyes widened, and she choked back a laugh. “How could I say no when this sounds like it will be the most entertaining conversation of my day? I’d rather talk about men than new gowns. And I’m not due to assist Lady Ann and the modiste for another hour.”
“Likely a very entertaining conversation,” Raine muttered and turned down the main hall, heading to the servant’s entrance at the rear of the house. Kit, as a guest of the duke, would use the main entrance. She used the rear. This difference in their lives was what she’d been trying to tell him, to no avail. He didn’t seem to care, and she wondered if she should.
But what woman didn’t want to be an asset to her husband?
She couldn’t see what she had to offer when he had so much already.
The morning was a warm one for Yorkshire, the somber sky casting dappled light across the path they took over the lawn. In the distance, she could see the bridge she’d traversed last night, falling in love by the time she arrived on the other side. When they reached the gardens, Raine inhaled the scent of lilacs and hibiscus, bees and butterflies flitting around her. She didn’t have a green thumb like her father, although she’d spent many a day with him in Tavistock’s gardens, listening to his advice about how to make his beloved plants flourish. Usually, the thought of family brought a stinging sense of loneliness, but instead, now, she imagined Kit beside her—and felt empowered.
Charlotte crossed to a marble bench surrounded by a riot of colorful blooms, stretched her arms over her head and sighed. “I love summer. My favorite season.” She patted the empty spot next to her. “Come tell me about this tempting, vexing, wonderful man. I admit I can’t wait to hear the story. A certain groom has taken quite a fancy to you if gossip is accurate.”
Raine settled beside Charlotte, plucked a daisy from its stem, and twirled it
