by Judith Ivory
Golden-haired innocent Christina Bower is totally captivated by the Earl of Kewischester, a lethally charming rake whose touch alone can melt her heart.
Adrien led the way deeper into the garden, perfectly polite.
Christina felt a fool. He wasn't disapproving or making harsh judgments of her. A gentleman, she realized as she followed him. Whatever else he was, he was that. Not a sham, no deceit, genuinely upper class. Like the sound of his voice. She envied his speech. It had taken her so long, and several girls' schools, to achieve something similar.
They went around the last bend in the path, and there stood a little house made of nothing but glass. "What—" She halted.
He held the door open. "The roses are toward the back."
He motioned, then guided, putting her in front of him. His hand touched lightly at her back. She had to quell a little shiver.
The greenhouse was not particularly small, but it was crowded with plants. Orange trees bloomed. Lemons. Pineapples. And at the rear, a wall of roses. Beautiful, peach-colored blooms. He pointed to them.
"Oh," she said. "They're lovely!"
He moved around her, brushing her shoulder as he passed. She was more aware of him—of his body, its solidness and peculiar grace—in the crowded quarters. As he bent toward her, his chest came up against her arm and breast, and he murmured an apology. As if this were perfectly excusable. He picked up some shears from the workbench.
One, two, three . . . a dozen. Methodically, he cut the flowers. When he offered them to her, she didn't know what to say. His smile, his pleasant friendliness, his sharp features were so magnetic. She damned all handsome men as she stood in a cloud of confusion. After a moment, she reached out. Then stupidly, promptly, dropped the roses onto the floor.
"Ow—" Blood oozed from the tip of her middle finger.
His hand wrapped around hers. He took her finger into his mouth.
She was stunned.
His mouth was warm. She could feel the gentle pressure, a drawing of his teeth and tongue. It took her much too long to retrieve her hand.
"Sir," she reprimanded softly. She looked away.
He bent to pick up the flowers at her feet. And the little glass house began to feel close. Where he squatted, he aligned the flowers—six, seven, eight . . . Christina flattened her hands into her skirt to hold it back, to avoid stepping on his fingers. She tried to take a step back, but a low shelf caught her, pressing into her bottom. It was strange, but this was somehow alarming. She felt agitated, fidgety. She looked at her finger. It had begun to throb lightly. There was a pin-prick of blood.
He stood, the bundle of roses in his hand, and reached above her—his chest against her face. The smell of him again. Soap, tobacco, leather. Was he doing this on purpose? Christina felt suffocated by him. She held her breath rather than breathe in his warmth, his humidity. She raised her hands. Lightly against his chest. Not knowing how to push him back without touching him. Then, on his own, he moved back. As if it were nothing. As if she weren't there. She was nonplussed, a woman left in midair. She couldn't look at him. Yet, in nervous glances, couldn't stop keeping track . . .
He wrapped piece of paper about the stems of the roses, then set the tidied parcel on the workbench and took another step back. He rested an elbow on the upper shelf and looked at her. There was a faint, ironic smile on his lips.
"I've frightened you," he said.
She was quick to shake her head. "Oh, no—"
He laughed. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." He reached and caught her hand again.
He was half flustered, half piqued at the apology followed by the same trick. She flinched as he turned her hand over and studied it. Her hand was clammy. It shook slightly. His was steady, smooth.
He let go. She huffed a wounded breath and pressed her palm to her chest.
"It will be all right," he said. He cocked his head to the side. "The cut, I mean." As if he could have meant something else. "And I'm sorry for the moment ago. Only your finger just suddenly looked—" He shrugged, smiled. "It's what I do with mine. Honestly." His smile broadened, a flash of white teeth as brilliant as a bolt of electricity through a dark sky.
Christina blushed, turned her head away. She caught sight of the door at the far end, down that corridor of plants. She really must leave, she thought.
Then she heard him laughing. "If you make a break for it, I'll drop you to the ground flat out. Wrestling team, you know, all the way through university. I'm a smash at takedown."
Her eyes went wide to him.
His soft laughter again. "Sorry." He made a self-conscious apology with his shoulders. "Only pulling your leg. You look so bloody green." More soberly. "But I'm just a little insulted. What you must be thinking."
"I wasn't thinking anything."
"Only that I'd as soon ravish you as look at you. Which is not true. I find looking at you exceptionally pleasant." He paused. "Why did you come out here with me if I frighten you so?"
No answer. Though it remained a very good question.
