lingered.
Cleo looked up into gray eyes that seemed molten with heat. “I promise to hold my tongue.” She swallowed. “Occasionally.”
His gaze questioned, and Cleo tried to hide the something hot and alive that leapt up inside her, eager to answer that look.
He swore, a single sharp oath, and took her face in his palms, the palms that had curved around the teacup. She felt her breath catch in her chest while her heart beat a deep, heavy thump against the thin fabric of her gown. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers, forcing her lips open and stealing her breath with a ruthless, knowing kiss that went on and on, crumbling undefended walls of permission and participation.
Cleo’s sleeping senses awoke everywhere, uncurled in her breasts and stretched in her belly and lower. Rational thought drowned in eddies of surging energy and helpless languor, until she clutched his fine wool sleeve to keep from melting into the abbey stones.
The kiss ended, and the shock of his abrupt withdrawal left her suspended, intensely alive, sensation still coursing through her. With only a quick steadying touch under her elbow, he led her to sign the register. There she put her hand to the book, marveling that her ordinary faculties functioned effortlessly, while inside some elusive sense she had not known she possessed struggled to fix the impression of his kiss in her body. The formalities accomplished, Mr. Tucker escaped into his sacristy, and the wedding party left the church.
Outside, a weak Michaelmas sun made a faint effort to warm the day. A fine rig with a matching pair of black horses stood waiting, a gawking boy at the horses’ heads. Sir Alexander Jones pulled on his gloves and set his hat on his head. “I’ll put an announcement in the papers.”
He turned to his brother. “Ready, Will?”
Her groom’s piratical brother raised the brow of his good eye and tipped his hat to Cleo. “So much for the treacle moon,” he muttered, and they mounted the rig.
With a glance over his shoulder, her husband said, “I’ve ordered you a breakfast at the inn if you like. Whenever you’re ready to come to town, let Mrs. Lawful know. Arrangements have been made for your transport. If you need funds, you can apply to Mr. Taylor, my man of business.”
He drove off.
Cleo and Charlie stood in the arched stone doorway of the church and watched the brothers disappear down the empty road. The sky looked threatening, and they had a long walk home. Cleo’s slippers would never survive a rain.
“I thought he might kiss you again.” Charlie sighed.
“I suspect he’s off to buy his gasworks.” She would do well to hold on to that thought. Whatever her husband’s kiss had done to her, it had left no mark on him.
“The banks aren’t open.”
“But the inn is, dearest. Shall we enjoy a very large breakfast?”
Chapter Five
A RCHIBALD March’s fondness for his London club was undeniable. The loftiness of its rooms and the civilized comforts of its service had sustained him through the long years of living in cramped bachelor quarters before his brother’s passing.
It was his habit to be seen in the subscription room most evenings, where his fellow members left his chair undisturbed. There he read the papers and drank a glass of wine to fortify himself for the demands of a London evening. From his usual corner he greeted supporters of his various charities, MPs who could be counted on to vote as directed, and indeed the Home Secretary himself, a fellow member.
In his chair he could forget that he was a mere footnote in the pages of the peerage devoted to the Spencers. He was his mother’s son not by the Right Honorable Lord Woford, whom she’d married when Archibald was two, but by John March, an obscure country squire with a few good freehold acres. Archibald never forgot that though a baron had encouraged Archibald to call him father , though he had shown Archibald every sign of affection and favor in his
Cleo looked up into gray eyes that seemed molten with heat. “I promise to hold my tongue.” She swallowed. “Occasionally.”
His gaze questioned, and Cleo tried to hide the something hot and alive that leapt up inside her, eager to answer that look.
He swore, a single sharp oath, and took her face in his palms, the palms that had curved around the teacup. She felt her breath catch in her chest while her heart beat a deep, heavy thump against the thin fabric of her gown. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers, forcing her lips open and stealing her breath with a ruthless, knowing kiss that went on and on, crumbling undefended walls of permission and participation.
Cleo’s sleeping senses awoke everywhere, uncurled in her breasts and stretched in her belly and lower. Rational thought drowned in eddies of surging energy and helpless languor, until she clutched his fine wool sleeve to keep from melting into the abbey stones.
The kiss ended, and the shock of his abrupt withdrawal left her suspended, intensely alive, sensation still coursing through her. With only a quick steadying touch under her elbow, he led her to sign the register. There she put her hand to the book, marveling that her ordinary faculties functioned effortlessly, while inside some elusive sense she had not known she possessed struggled to fix the impression of his kiss in her body. The formalities accomplished, Mr. Tucker escaped into his sacristy, and the wedding party left the church.
Outside, a weak Michaelmas sun made a faint effort to warm the day. A fine rig with a matching pair of black horses stood waiting, a gawking boy at the horses’ heads. Sir Alexander Jones pulled on his gloves and set his hat on his head. “I’ll put an announcement in the papers.”
He turned to his brother. “Ready, Will?”
Her groom’s piratical brother raised the brow of his good eye and tipped his hat to Cleo. “So much for the treacle moon,” he muttered, and they mounted the rig.
With a glance over his shoulder, her husband said, “I’ve ordered you a breakfast at the inn if you like. Whenever you’re ready to come to town, let Mrs. Lawful know. Arrangements have been made for your transport. If you need funds, you can apply to Mr. Taylor, my man of business.”
He drove off.
Cleo and Charlie stood in the arched stone doorway of the church and watched the brothers disappear down the empty road. The sky looked threatening, and they had a long walk home. Cleo’s slippers would never survive a rain.
“I thought he might kiss you again.” Charlie sighed.
“I suspect he’s off to buy his gasworks.” She would do well to hold on to that thought. Whatever her husband’s kiss had done to her, it had left no mark on him.
“The banks aren’t open.”
“But the inn is, dearest. Shall we enjoy a very large breakfast?”
Chapter Five
A RCHIBALD March’s fondness for his London club was undeniable. The loftiness of its rooms and the civilized comforts of its service had sustained him through the long years of living in cramped bachelor quarters before his brother’s passing.
It was his habit to be seen in the subscription room most evenings, where his fellow members left his chair undisturbed. There he read the papers and drank a glass of wine to fortify himself for the demands of a London evening. From his usual corner he greeted supporters of his various charities, MPs who could be counted on to vote as directed, and indeed the Home Secretary himself, a fellow member.
In his chair he could forget that he was a mere footnote in the pages of the peerage devoted to the Spencers. He was his mother’s son not by the Right Honorable Lord Woford, whom she’d married when Archibald was two, but by John March, an obscure country squire with a few good freehold acres. Archibald never forgot that though a baron had encouraged Archibald to call him father , though he had shown Archibald every sign of affection and favor in his
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