shoulders and strode to reclaim his surcoat.
"Tomorrow," he repeated, shrugging into it. "A picnic. I will call for you at noon. And Mary, of course. She may bring her friend Anne if it pleases her."
Her gaze shot to her daughter. Lud, she'd been wantonly kissing a man, and Mary right in the room. Sensible Clarice had lost her senses.
"Don't worry," he said, reading her mind. "She saw nothing."
On his way to the door, he paused to draw her close and plant one more kiss that left her reeling. He was outside and down her garden path before she could catch her breath. A final sneeze drifted back to her.
Noon. Fifteen hours from now. Fifteen hours until she would have to tell him the one thing that would send him running from her as fast as his legs would carry him.
This had gone much too far already.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"There's a bonnie loch near Leslie." Seated on the blanket he'd brought—which he'd positioned as far from any flowers as possible—Cameron crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back against the trunk of a tree. "But not nearly as large as this one."
Clarice smiled, watching Mary play with her friend Anne by the lake's edge. "We are fortunate the marquess allows us to enjoy his park."
Indeed, this patch of England was a sylvan scene, blue water lapping softly at green shores. Friendly swans roamed the gently sloped grassy banks, begging crumbs from the picnickers who sat shaded beneath the tall, leafy trees.
Before they'd eaten, the girls had begged dancing lessons from Cameron. Right there in the open, he'd taught them all a branle, the courante, an almain, and the English pavane. "Lady Kendra's been busy," he'd told Clarice.
Now, watching her lick the delicious stickiness of roast chicken from her hands made him envy her lucky fingers. She turned to the huge picnic basket he'd brought with him from the castle. "Lud, there's enough food left to satisfy the entire village."
He grinned. "I told Cook I needed to feed four ravenous folk."
Sipping wine from a pewter goblet, she sent him a mock glare over the rim. "Are you telling me you didn't prepare all this yourself?"
"Nay." Cameron crossed his long legs. "I suppose you should know I cannot cook. That's why I require a wife."
Though he'd said it in jest, he was pleased to see she didn't flinch at his words. Maybe she was getting used to the idea.
Tomorrow was the ball, and Sunday he'd be leaving for home.
The realization hit with a stab of desperation. He couldn't leave her here. Whatever bond he'd felt upon meeting her, since then it had grown. He was more than certain of his feelings now.
Aye, he'd known her but a few days. Aye, it was daft. But he'd always been a man who knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was Clarice.
He suddenly reached to pull her to him, to hold her close, to devour her sweet mouth, to convince her, once and for all, that she didn't want to live without him any more than he did without her.
Her goblet fell to the ground and rolled down the mild slope. With her palms flat on his chest, she pushed away and sat straight. "I cannot do this." Her words came in a harsh whisper. "I'm feeling too close, and…you're leaving."
She shot a glance to where Mary played by the water, oblivious.
"Clarice." Fingers on her chin, he gently eased her gaze back to his. "Lord knows I've tried to be patient, but I want you. If you didn't believe it before, maybe you will now. You have to now, or it will be too late." He studied her eyes, the gray bright with a sheen of tears. "Do you truly think it matters that you've years to your credit I haven't lived?"
"No," she whispered, for all the world looking defeated. "It's—"
"You cannot believe you don't deserve a baronet. For God's sake, all that means is I own some land. And with it comes a title of sorts. But I'm not nobility, Clarice, and even if I were, I'd still want you."
"I know."
Then why did she look like her heart would break? "Would you be so unhappy, then, to leave
"Tomorrow," he repeated, shrugging into it. "A picnic. I will call for you at noon. And Mary, of course. She may bring her friend Anne if it pleases her."
Her gaze shot to her daughter. Lud, she'd been wantonly kissing a man, and Mary right in the room. Sensible Clarice had lost her senses.
"Don't worry," he said, reading her mind. "She saw nothing."
On his way to the door, he paused to draw her close and plant one more kiss that left her reeling. He was outside and down her garden path before she could catch her breath. A final sneeze drifted back to her.
Noon. Fifteen hours from now. Fifteen hours until she would have to tell him the one thing that would send him running from her as fast as his legs would carry him.
This had gone much too far already.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"There's a bonnie loch near Leslie." Seated on the blanket he'd brought—which he'd positioned as far from any flowers as possible—Cameron crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back against the trunk of a tree. "But not nearly as large as this one."
Clarice smiled, watching Mary play with her friend Anne by the lake's edge. "We are fortunate the marquess allows us to enjoy his park."
Indeed, this patch of England was a sylvan scene, blue water lapping softly at green shores. Friendly swans roamed the gently sloped grassy banks, begging crumbs from the picnickers who sat shaded beneath the tall, leafy trees.
Before they'd eaten, the girls had begged dancing lessons from Cameron. Right there in the open, he'd taught them all a branle, the courante, an almain, and the English pavane. "Lady Kendra's been busy," he'd told Clarice.
Now, watching her lick the delicious stickiness of roast chicken from her hands made him envy her lucky fingers. She turned to the huge picnic basket he'd brought with him from the castle. "Lud, there's enough food left to satisfy the entire village."
He grinned. "I told Cook I needed to feed four ravenous folk."
Sipping wine from a pewter goblet, she sent him a mock glare over the rim. "Are you telling me you didn't prepare all this yourself?"
"Nay." Cameron crossed his long legs. "I suppose you should know I cannot cook. That's why I require a wife."
Though he'd said it in jest, he was pleased to see she didn't flinch at his words. Maybe she was getting used to the idea.
Tomorrow was the ball, and Sunday he'd be leaving for home.
The realization hit with a stab of desperation. He couldn't leave her here. Whatever bond he'd felt upon meeting her, since then it had grown. He was more than certain of his feelings now.
Aye, he'd known her but a few days. Aye, it was daft. But he'd always been a man who knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was Clarice.
He suddenly reached to pull her to him, to hold her close, to devour her sweet mouth, to convince her, once and for all, that she didn't want to live without him any more than he did without her.
Her goblet fell to the ground and rolled down the mild slope. With her palms flat on his chest, she pushed away and sat straight. "I cannot do this." Her words came in a harsh whisper. "I'm feeling too close, and…you're leaving."
She shot a glance to where Mary played by the water, oblivious.
"Clarice." Fingers on her chin, he gently eased her gaze back to his. "Lord knows I've tried to be patient, but I want you. If you didn't believe it before, maybe you will now. You have to now, or it will be too late." He studied her eyes, the gray bright with a sheen of tears. "Do you truly think it matters that you've years to your credit I haven't lived?"
"No," she whispered, for all the world looking defeated. "It's—"
"You cannot believe you don't deserve a baronet. For God's sake, all that means is I own some land. And with it comes a title of sorts. But I'm not nobility, Clarice, and even if I were, I'd still want you."
"I know."
Then why did she look like her heart would break? "Would you be so unhappy, then, to leave
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