ped, jerking in his hold without breaking free. She turned on him in a swirl of green silk and a flash of golden eyes, bright with alarm and barely concealed longing.
“Five minutes. That’s all I ask.” It wasn’t all he wanted, but it was the most he could expect. More than he should expect.
“I can’t,” she stammered even as he swept her through the French doors and onto the terrace. “You know I can’t.”
Torches on the balustrades marked the limit of the outdoor walk above the gardens and bright light spilled from the house. Even now it would be easy to keep this encounter civilized, decorous, of no interest to an observer.
Except that he’d had it up to his damned neck with civilized and decorous. Only primitive, animal desire would get him what he wanted now.
With a ruthless deftness learned in the dangerous byways of Europe, Simon firmed his grip and shoved Lydia deep into the shadows between the open doors. Before she could protest, even, God forbid, call for help, he swung her around until her back hit the mansion’s stone wall.
She landed with a slight bounce and released a shocked huff of breath. His hold automatically gentled, even if nothing short of an advancing regiment could make him let her go. He didn’t want to hurt her. He’d never wanted that, although he knew that his actions as a young man had exacted a painful toll.
Through the darkness, he saw the shine of her eyes and the rich cream of her skin. She was panting, each breath making her bosom rise and fall. The sight stoked the fever that had compelled him into this recklessness. His heedless haste had disturbed her coiffure, dislodging one long tendril of red to drift down over her shoulder.
He liked to see her looking less than perfect. His Lydia wasn’t the dignified paragon that she presented to society. She was the living, breathing woman who had kissed him until he thought he’d combust.
“Simon, let me go back into the house.” Her voice was low and unsteady.
“Just give me this much,” he said, hating his shaking desperation but unable to rein it in. “I need… something from you, something to keep as mine when you’ve given everything else to that blackguard.”
“You promised you’d stay away.” Her voice broke with strain.
Damn her for resisting him. Except even now when she denied everything between them, he couldn’t damn her. He loved her too much. He’d thought living with her absence had been the purest hell. Since returning to England, he’d discovered that having her near, yet out of reach, surpassed any torture devised by the Spanish Inquisition.
He leaned closer, inhaling her sweet scent, roses and Lydia and a hint of female musk that despite everything offered him hope. “This is the last time, I swear.”
“You’re being cruel.” She turned toward the doors. On her ashen cheeks, tears shimmered in the torchlight. He was a cad to torment her like this.
“I’m leaving, Lydia.” He raised an unsteady hand to caress away her tears. Her cheek was satiny beneath his fingers. “I can’t stay and watch you marry another man.”
He heard her breath catch and she swerved to peer at him through the gloom. “L-leaving? Where? When?”
“My aunt left me a small estate in Devon. I’ll go there tomorrow and stay until I decide what to make of the rest of my life.” His voice sank into bitterness, even as he knew that he was unfair to prick her guilt. “I don’t really give a tinker’s curse.”
“Oh, Simon…” On a shuddering sigh, she pressed back against the wall.
Recognizing with unworthy satisfaction that she wasn’t going to run, he released her. He placed his hands flat on the stonework on either side of her, trapping her with his body without touching her. He’d reached a stage of need where he couldn’t trust himself to stop if he touched her. He’d wanted her before he’d left England, but the way he wanted her now was excruciating.
The prospect of losing her forever tore his guts out with tweezers. He’d loved the young Lydia with a boy’s volatile passion, but the woman she’d become lived in every breath he took, every beat of his heart, every moment of his existence.
“This is ripping both of us apart.” His voice was thick with frustration and love and pain. “Better I go.”
“So this is good-bye?” She sounded dazed, as if his words made no sense. Distantly, a piano played a short introductory phrase and a meltingly sweet soprano began to sing in Italian.
Che farò senza Euridice?
Dove andrò senza il mio ben?
“Hell, Lydia…” he groaned.
His heart pounded with a dizzying mixture of excitement and anguish. He felt as though he teetered on a precipice over a raging river. Around him the night whispered dangerous encouragement to him to make her his. Now. While he had the chance.
Lydia straightened, narrowing the space between them. She was so close that he felt the warmth of her body. Her rose fragrance made him crazy with desire. God in heaven, how could he resist her? Just one last kiss. Surely that wouldn’t tempt heaven to proclaim his destruction.
On another groan, he leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers.
He gave her no quarter. He wanted to mark her soul, so that as long as she lived, part of her would always be his. He wanted her touch to burn a hole in his heart that would never heal. He wanted this final moment they shared to extend into infinity.