MATTERS TO UNRAVEL
Adair tried to school his face to neutral, to keep his eyes from wandering to her, but it was hard. He twisted his fingers together where they lay on his lap, and then jumped as the person next to him said something.
He frowned at Richard. He hadn't heard a word – he'd been lost in thoughts of Genevieve's scent as he held her close – wild and fragrant – the feel of her body on his, her lips parting under his...
“I said, could you pass me that jug, please?” Richard asked. He looked at him with a slightly confused expression, as if trying to fathom what exactly had happened to him. He nodded.
“Sorry. Of course.”
Embarrassed, he reached for his soup-ladle quickly, and then dropped it, with a clatter, onto the floor.
Someone down the table snorted. He heard it clearly. He looked pointedly in the direction of the sound and found himself looking at MacCleary. He felt a cool frost creep through his veins, studying the man. How dare he? He held his gaze. MacCleary stared at him, disinterestedly, and then dropped his gaze, reaching for his soup.
How dare he? First, he thinks he can talk to Genevieve like that, and then he thinks he can scorn me...
He flushed. He knew he was considering MacCleary a rival. He wouldn't have expected such a thing of himself. He looked down into his soup.
You're not some lovesick teenager. Stop behaving as if you were fifteen and could battle others with no consequence.
He had never felt this way about anyone before, not even when he was fifteen years old. He was no stranger to things between a man and woman, but all his liaisons had been conducted shamefully, with the surety that his partner only favored him because he was the laird's son. He sighed.
This was so different. It was like nothing he'd ever felt – or thought was possible to feel. He swallowed hard, trying to keep a hold on his tumult of feelings.
He looked up again and felt MacCleary's flat, arrogant stare on him. He held the man's gaze, making him turn away.
That one is trouble.
He could comport himself like a gentleman as much as he pleased – if someone sought a fight with him, what was he supposed to do?
He saw the fellow's eyes flicker to Genevieve and his hand tightened involuntarily. If anyone touched her against her wishes, he would...
He dropped his spoon soundlessly onto the tablecloth, shocked at the dark anger that consumed him. He had sworn never to commit an act of violence, or even to give himself the opportunity to do so. Now, seeing that suave, smooth fellow cast a proprietary glance at Genevieve, he was sure that he would have to be held back.
He looked away, feeling ashamed. Reached for a glass of cordial and took a steadying sip. It was good cordial – dark and intense, with just the right balance of sweetness and rich flavor. He set it down appreciatively.
Across the table, Genevieve grinned at him, lighting his soul.
“You favor my cousin's cordial?”
“I do,” he nodded. “It's very well-made.”
“It is,” she admitted. She was still grinning at him and he shifted uncomfortably, wondering what amused her.
“What?” he asked, risking a direct question.
“Sorry,” she smiled. “You have cordial on your nose.”
She reached over with a napkin and dabbed at it. He blinked, the intimate touch in this public place almost unbearably sweet. She laid the napkin on her knee again, and then looked up at him, grinning.
“Sorry,” she said again. “I just couldn't help noticing. And smiling.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, echoing her words of earlier. They still burned like a sweet fire inside him.
Nothing to be sorry for. There is nothing to forgive.
“Well, I didn't mean to draw attention to it,” Genevieve grinned. “The cordial, I mean. It was rude of me, I suppose.”
“It might have been ruder to pretend you hadn't seen it,” he smiled. “I would have felt a complete fool, spending the whole evening with a bright red nose.”
They both laughed. At the end of the table, he saw Ascott give him a wondering glance.
He must be wondering what has happened to me! I wonder myself, a little.
He had never felt like this, not as long as he could remember.
He reached for his spoon again and sipped at the delicious soup. It was flavored with herbs, delicate and subtle. He had never eaten as well as he did at Arabella and Richard's home, he realized. It felt almost as if his senses were awake, now, letting him fully appreciate things for the first time. He reached for a roll from the basket between them just as Genevieve did, and their fingers touched.
She blushed and looked down. He smiled. He felt again as if there were only the two of them in the room, sharing an intimacy about which nobody else knew.
He flushed, thinking of it. He caught her eye and saw a bright joy spark there. He wondered what she was thinking. A moment later, she cleared her throat.
“Arabella said the rose garden is beautiful at night.”
He felt his eyebrow shift upward in surprise. Was that meant to be what it sounded like? An invitation to join her in the gardens after the meal?
“I can imagine it is,” he whispered back.
“Imagination only goes so far,” she said archly.
Adair stared at her in surprise. He had never expected this side of her existed! He should have noticed it before – arch, wry, teasing. He would never have expected it to be directed at himself. “Um, yes,” he nodded, feeling his heart thudding in his chest. “I would like to confirm it.”
“Me too,” she said. Her eyes caught his and held. He felt his body swamped with longing.
He coughed, looking at his plate. He was sure his thoughts were written all over his face, and wasn't sure he wanted all of Arabella and Richard's guests to see, written in capitals, his longing.
He reached for his soup, finishing it in silence.
Course followed course – grilled fish, followed by the main course, a pie, along with a stew of carrots, which everyone praised. Fresh vegetables were a rarity. Adair enjoyed his meal, though it was alloyed with impatience – he wanted to leave and go outside. With her.
“I think we can declare that a fine victory,” Richard said, turning to Arabella when the last of the dinner had been cleared away, “of ingenuity and artifice over some humble ingredients.”
Arabella blushed, making a face at him. “Richard, you do talk lovely nonsense.”
As people complimented the meal, and Arabella – whose idea it was, though Mrs. Webster made it – flushed cheerily, Adair glanced around the room.
He looked to his left, to Richard, pushing back his chair. “I think I'll go up,” he said.
Richard raised a brow. “As you wish, Adair,” he nodded, informally. “I think we'll move to the drawing room for cards in a moment. So if you wish to play later...”
“I'll come up,” Adair agreed. He stood and shot a glance across the table. Opposite him, Genevieve's eye met his and then she looked down swiftly.
He walked out through the back doors, wondering if she had understood his meaning.
He headed through the front door and out into the cold, fragrant night. Gathering his cloak around him, he breathed out a foggy exhale, wondering about the wisdom of this. It was a risk, to meet her here. And it's cold.
“I'll just go round the garden once, and then, if she doesn't come out in ten minutes, I'll go inside.”
Ten minutes would be more than enough to judge whether or not she had understood and wished to come and join him here. Fretting, he walked down the path, wincing as the cold bit into the back of his neck.
He was in the arbor, with the silhouettes of rosebushes around him, when he heard a crunch of a footfall on gravel. He turned around.
Touched with moonlight, she was there. He drew in a breath at the beauty of the spectacle.
“Milady,” he whispered. His voice caught in his throat. He watched her walk down the pathway, steps as light as if she danced there. Then she was before him.
“Adair,” she whispered.
She used his name alone, no title between them. If he wanted confirmation of her feelings, he could not have asked for more. He reached out and then she was in his arms, body pressed to his.
He drew in a ragged breath, and then kissed her, his lips descending on hers, aching and passionate. He pressed his lips to hers, his tongue darting between them. She sighed, a small sound, and leaned against him, her body soft and fragrant and pressed to his.
He felt his longing intensify, breathing in and smelling the sweet, fragrant scent of her. He tightened his arms around her and let his tongue taste the sweet wild taste of her.
Her lips, soft and tender, parted beneath his. He let his tongue gently explore her mouth, feeling his intense longing gather and slow, turning into a slow-burning passion.
She made a small sound and her arms tightened on him and he felt his body – aroused almost beyond his control – tense and press against hers, wanting more.
He leaned back, gasping breathlessly. If he kept this up a second longer he would press her to the bench and start to undress her, despite the cold, and then there would be nothing he could do to prevent going all the way to dishonor her. He tensed, his fist tight at his sides. “Lady Genevieve,” he murmured. “I mustn't.”
She looked up at him breathlessly. Her lips were still parted, her eyes soft with longing. He clenched his hands tightly and fought with his longing.
“We shouldn't,” he whispered, hoping she would understand without his needing to explain.
“I know.”
She looked down at her hands, half-opened at her sides. She stood there, her breath rising and falling slowly, and then she looked up at him. Her eyes were soft. “We should go in,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
He reached out to take her hand, unable to deny at least that much of closeness. He felt her fingers tighten on his. He felt his heart soften in his chest.
Slowly, they walked down the white gravel of the path, back toward the manor.
Under his hand, he could feel her skin, soft and warm, despite the coldness of the evening. He imagined himself beside her, holding that hand, feeling her touch on his bare skin, reaching out to run a hand down the velvety softness of her back...
“It's cold,” she murmured softly. Her fingers tightened on his own.
“I know,” he said. “We should go in.”
“Yes.”
They walked softly over the gravel, the only sound the crunch of the stones under their feet, filling the silence of the night.
At the steps, they paused. He looked up at the light, reluctant, suddenly, to enter. He looked down at her sweetly-beautiful face, and found himself once again lost for words. “Milady...I...I can't tell you how much I...”
“Genevieve,” she said, smiling into his face. “Please, Adair. Call me that.”
“Genevieve,” he said, the word filled with such intensity of feeling he could barely bear it. “Genevieve. My dearest.”
She tensed against him, as his arms enfolded her, and he let go a fraction, afraid he'd scared her. She reached up and gently touched his cheek. Looked into his eyes.
Then she turned away. “Goodnight, Adair,” she said softly.
“Goodnight.”
He let go of her hand and she walked away from him, heading silently to the steps and then going up, one step at a time. He followed her up, more slowly, lagging behind.
When he reached the bright interior of the hallway, he leaned against the wall, eyes closed, heart soaring.
She called me Adair. And I called her Genevieve.
He shook his head, unable to hide the vast grin that spread across his face. He had never felt this happy in all his life, he was sure of it.
“Genevieve,” he whispered. “I am in love with you.”