Chapter Thirteen
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The moment seemed impossibly delicate. The faintest disturbance of air might end the echo of his confession. She did not draw away, but neither did she fall into his arms and confess she too loved him.
She licked her lips, and he could see she was considering what to say or do. “Daunt.” He brushed his fingers over her cheek and brought her closer. She swallowed hard, and her cheeks were flushed. “It is exciting, Daunt. I too am overcome by our discovery.”
He kept her hand in his and took one of her curls between two fingers with his other, and then he kissed her, a short kiss, soft and gentle, and accepted by her. He kissed her cheek, then her forehead. “Magdalene, oh, Magdalene, I love you. I have loved you for years knowing there was no hope. But now.” His throat thickened with the fear that he was too soon with his confession. “I love you still, that shall never change. But it is my hope that one day you find me worthy. If that’s impossible, tell me. Tell me, and I promise you we shall be friends as we have always been.”
She drew a trembling breath, then gripped his upper arms and gazed into his face. “I do not know what I should feel. It is too much. All of this, you, the Dukes, everything. It’s too much.”
“All I ask is that you consider me.”
“I’ve been so lost without Angus. He was my anchor, and—” She pushed away from him and retreated until her back was pressed to the wall. Her gaze remained fixed on him. “I’ve always known you are attractive, but now I know it and… and… I should not have these feelings about you. I never thought I would be one of those lonely widows men are so eager to seduce.”
“No. No, Magdalene. That was never my intention.”
“I thought if we made love, I would be satisfied, and we would go on as friends.” Her eyes went wide. “I was satisfied. I was, oh, Daunt, never think I wasn’t.”
“But?” His life was in suspension.
Her eyes glittered with incipient tears, and that tore him to pieces. If she loved him, if she had any feelings for him but those of friendship, would she be on the verge of tears? “I thought Angus would be the only man for me. These feelings—” She ran her fingers through her hair. “These feelings…”
“I knew it,” he said softly. He would retreat. He had overstepped. He must retreat, and he must do so gently. “A Welsh comb.”
“What?” Her gaze fixed on him, puzzled.
“Most ladies of my acquaintance arrange their hair with combs and pins and silk flowers. One hundred strokes with a brush every night before retiring. But not you.” He ran his own fingers through his hair. “This, perhaps a ribbon, and you are done.”
“Oh. That. I just don’t see the point.”
“It’s fetching.”
“My God, Daunt. Do not do this to me.”
He went to her because he could not stand to see her so unhappy. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Magdalene. Don’t be unhappy. I never intended to upset you. We shall be to each other what we have always been.”
She wiped her eyes. “I don’t know what to do with these feelings. He’s dead, Fordyce—Daunt.” She rested her forehead against his shoulder and gripped the front of his coat. “He’s gone, and I miss him every day, and now there’s you, and I want to make love to you again, and if that’s so, did I ever really love Angus?”
“You did. You know you did. You still do. Nothing changes that.”
She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and brought him to her for a kiss. Not a peck, nothing chaste. He opened his mouth, and their tongues met, and Lord, but he might not survive this. He was here on this earth once and only once, and this was the woman he wanted by his side for all the days left to him.
He had no experience with the emotions tangling up inside him. The prospect of having the woman he loved was overwhelming; the prospect of losing her devastated. A soft moan escaped her lips. He was by no means a perfect man. He had his flaws like any other man, but if it was within his power to make her happy, he meant to do that.
Slowly, he pulled back, but she left her arms around his shoulders. “My dear.” He took a breath and settled himself. “Sweetheart.” He whispered the word at the same time he drew a finger from the underside of her jaw to the top of her shoulder. “Please, please tell me I have not mistaken your intent. You did mean to kiss me like that?”
“I’ve been dead inside for so long, and now I am not, and I…” Her finger slid across his lips. “I want kisses and whispered endearments and a man’s strong arms around me, his breath warm, my hands on his skin. Someone who will look at me as if I matter.” She lifted her head to his, and her bosom pressed against his chest as he bent to kiss her. Nothing held back this time. Lips touching, his tongue sliding along the inside of her mouth, and then the same from her.
He set his hand in the curve of her lower back. The longer he held her, the deeper he kissed her, the more powerfully intimate their embrace became, and the more uncertain he became of her mood, of her feelings for him, of what she thought this encounter meant.
He was the one to break their kiss, and he was pleased to see her dazed expression. “Magdalene…” He trembled with the possibilities. He kept his arms tight enough around her that she would know he intended this embrace. She tightened her arms around him. “Later,” he said softly. “Later, when you are prepared, when you’ve had time to consider, we can speak again.”