Untouched

Even as he said it, shock slammed his heart against his ribs. He’d trained himself to theorize and experiment and collect evidence. He couldn’t mistake his conclusion.

She’d enjoyed kissing him.

Was it possible she wanted him even a fraction as much as he wanted her?

“I can’t imagine you doing anything without honor,” she said softly but with emphasis, and turned with a flick of her skirts toward the house.

He could imagine it, he thought, watching the alluring sway of her hips as she walked off.

He could imagine throwing her down on the muddy ground and having his way. Or cornering her against a tree. Or chasing her back to the cottage and catching her the minute she was safe from spying eyes.

No honor in any of it. Although there would be pleasure.

And shame.

But as he watched her retreat down the path, it was the pleasure he contemplated.

Matthew’s mood had soured by dinner. The kiss had been wonderful. The most wonderful thing that ever happened to him. Now he knew her taste and the soft sighs she made in surrender, how could he live without touching her again?

If he touched her again, he wouldn’t stop at kisses.

He still had to get through the night lying beside her in chaste misery. The prospect made every muscle tighten in agonized denial.

Grace stood at the window and turned as he entered the salon. His hand clenched hard on the door as he struggled to rein in his urge to sweep her up in his arms. She needed his protection not his passion. The glories of the afternoon were something he must put aside, like an outgrown coat.

Easy to say, harder to do when her smile caught at his poor heart. Why the hell did she have to be so beautiful?

“Lord Sheene.”

“You called me Matthew this afternoon.”

Her eyes darkened as they’d darkened that afternoon. He strode toward her before he remembered he’d sworn to keep his distance. Only when she nervously backed away did he stop, still several feet away.

“Matthew.”

That throaty voice turned his name into an endearment. Oh, yes, kissing her had been a mistake. A mistake he’d pay for in endless pain and frustration. Still he couldn’t regret it.

“Grace.” He watched the fickle color fluctuate on her milky skin. “Are you hungry?”

Her eyes flared with unmistakable interest before those sinfully thick eyelashes hid her expression. “Yes,” she said almost inaudibly.

His fingers itched to trace that flush of warm pink along her cheekbones. He hadn’t expected her to be ill at ease. After all, she was a widow and had known a man. Surely a mere kiss couldn’t send her into such a flutter. Had Paget, the dry old stick, let her down in this as well as everything else?

She wore a blue silk gown cut low at the neck. His eyes fell to the intriguing shadow between her breasts. She shivered as if he touched her there.

“Please say something,” she said on a cracked laugh. “Even if it’s only to talk about the weather.”

“I believe we’re due for rain,” he said, unable to tear his gaze away. As if to prove his comment’s awful inanity, rain splattered hard against the window. They were in the middle of a downpour. He hadn’t noticed. All he noticed was Grace. Her exquisite skin, her slender curves wrapped in silk the color of sky, her lush mouth.

He ripped himself from his distraction and crossed to the sideboard to pour her wine. But invisible wires connected him to her. Wires that tightened infinitesimally with every breath so the effort of keeping his hands off her became more onerous by the second.

Grace picked at her food, in spite of her avowal of hunger. She was hungry, all right. For a man. The man who sat opposite, struggling to make conversation. Struggling not to look at her. Looking all the same. As if no power on earth could stop him.

Just as she couldn’t help looking at him.

She’d never felt this way before. A turbulent storm of desire raged within her. Need blazed like a comet. This thirst for a man’s touch was unfamiliar. Distressing.

She admired Lord Sheene’s mind, she applauded his steadfastness, she was in awe of his courage. But all of this faded in her craving for the slide of his skin on hers, the heat of his mouth, the beat of his heart under her hand.