Frovtunes’ Kiss (29 page)

“Out of the carriage, Moira.”

From across the plush seat, she leaned a little forward to look out at him where he stood in the morning sunshine beside the open coach door. She quirked an eyebrow and harrumphed.

“Out of the carriage, Moira,
please
.”

She faced front again and folded her hands on her lap. “I'm returning to London with you.”

“Blazing hell you are.”

“Don't be silly.” She sniffed. “What did you think, that I'd be content to while away my days in the country and live off your largesse, while some stranger named Michael Oliphant made off with my mother's inheritance?”

She narrowed her lashes as she mentioned her faceless adversary, then glanced again at Graham to bestow her disapproval equally upon him. “After last night, doing so would make me a kept woman, which is something I could never abide.”

“Oh, Moira, for heaven's sake, I no more wish to make a kept woman of you than I expect you and your mother to live off anyone's charity for the rest of your lives.”

He wanted to reach in and haul her out by the scruff of the neck. Instead, he gripped the edge of the open carriage door and counted backward from ten. She continued regarding him with that stubborn, superior, oh-so-Moira Hughes propriety that made him fear, greatly, that in the end he'd lose the argument.

“I thought we agreed Monteith would be the safest place for you and your mother,” he reasoned. “Why else did we come here?”

“I don't know why you came here,” she said with a shrug, “but I came to ensure my mother's safety. We've done that and then some. With all the guards you've set on the estate, no one can venture within a half mile of the house without being spotted. But more than that, Mother seems quite clear on where I'm going and why. She understands that I will, indeed, return and that Papa, sadly, will not. I owe that to you.”

Her voice had softened, and she offered a fond look that didn't for an instant fool him into believing it was anything other than an attempt to wrap him round her finger.

“Must I tear my hair out, Moira? Dash my head against the wall? Fall to my knees and beg? Is that what you require of me?”

“Don't be dramatic.”

“Then don't you be. Stop swashbuckling and stay where you belong. Where I know you'll be safe.”

To his surprise she slid closer to the open door, but his sudden optimism that she would, in fact, listen to reason proved hasty. She pried his hand from the door and held it fast.

“Oh, Graham, after last night, do you really wish to put so many miles between us? Can you ride off so easily without me, or did last night mean infinitely less to you than it did to me?” Here her voice trembled and her eyebrows gathered in a display of imminent devastation.

Stubborn, clever woman. As she spoke, her fingertips stroked back and forth across his palm and even slipped beneath his cuff to caress his pulse point. Ah, yes, she'd been an apt pupil, becoming quite adept in the art of subtle and not-so-subtle seduction.

In fact, despite being wise to her ploy, he felt the effects of her little caresses and widened his stance to accommodate the sudden lack of room in his trousers.

“Well, my darling? Can you leave me behind with so little compunction?”

“No,” he replied through clenched teeth.

“Splendid, then it's settled. Are we all set to leave, then?” Holding her skirts, she scooted back to the far end of the seat, presumably to allow him room to climb in. She squared her shoulders in preparation of the carriage lurching into motion. “I've already said my farewells to Mother, so if you're ready, let's be off.”

“One night and I'm lost,” he mumbled under his breath. “Hopelessly and irretrievably lost.”

“What was that?”

He scowled. “The footman is securing my overnight bag now.” He clambered in and closed the door.

A moment later Estella Foster's face appeared at the open carriage window. She reached an arm inside, extending a letter to Moira. “I very nearly forgot. This is for Benedict Ramsey. When you arrive in London, do deliver it for me as soon as you may. It conveys my congratulations.”

Moira leaned around Graham to take the missive from her mother's outstretched hand. “Congratulations for what?”

“You mean he didn't tell you when you visited with him?”

“Yes, well, my visit with Uncle Benedict was cut suddenly short.” She eyed Graham askance.

“Why, dear cousin Benedict is finally to gain a seat in the House of Lords,” her mother explained. “He's been hoping for years, but as I'm sure you know, clerical seats are limited, and newly created bishops must wait for, well, for someone to die.” She conveyed this information in an undertone, as if it held the taint of scandal. “Benedict has finally gotten his chance.”

“So the old cobra's to be a peer,” Graham murmured several minutes later as the carriage proceeded through the gates and onto the main road. “Heaven help us all.”

Moira shook her head at him. “I understand that he did you a bad turn years ago. But can you not allow that a man can change over time, and perhaps Uncle Benedict may regret the past?”

“Have you forgotten how he spoke of me that day in his house?”

“No. Nor have I forgotten you were eavesdropping outside the window.”

As the carriage bumped along the country road, they said little else, the silence taut between them. He slid low on the set, arms crossed, one leg thrown across the other knee. Moira bounced stiffly against the squabs, chin up, bottom lip slightly protruding.

This wasn't right. They should be happy, laughing, holding hands. Last night they'd shared something extraordinary. He'd taken her virginity, a precious and irreplaceable commodity, albeit she had given it willingly. He should be offering something in return, a gift equally valuable, equally earnest. Otherwise he didn't deserve last night, didn't even deserve to be sitting beside her now. Perhaps he should tell her the truth, a truth that had been quietly creeping up on him only to thunder through him last night.

He cleared his throat. “Let's not be angry, Moira.”

“I'm not.”

Then why the self-righteous furrow above her nose? But he said, “Good, because there's something I wish to tell you. It's about last night.”

Before he could say another word, she placed her hand over his where it lay against his thigh. “I know.”

He felt a jolt of astonishment. “You do?”

“Of course. I understand you're not a family man. You don't believe in it, and besides, your obligations in Egypt prevent you from forming commitments here. I promised I wouldn't try to trap you into anything you couldn't give, and I've no intention of going back on my word. But that doesn't make what we shared any less special, at least not to me.”

“Nor to me.” His teeth clamped the inside of his lip. He hadn't been about to say any of those things, yet they were right, each one. He
wasn't
a family man; he
didn't
believe in it. Witness how much damage he'd done his own family through the years. What right had he, then, to even contemplate loving a woman for whom family meant everything?

No right at all. Good God, blurting the truth would only make their inevitable parting that much more difficult; would very likely break her heart. And his.

A good thing she'd headed him off by speaking first. Except…

It didn't
feel
like a good thing. He only knew, on an intellectual level, it was.

“That's exactly what I wanted to say,” he lied. “Last night was very special to me, too.
You've
become very special to me.” He stopped, considering his words. They seemed safe enough. Correct enough. People could be special to one another without having their hearts broken.

He fought past a crippling disappointment and somehow found a grin, the one that displayed his dimples and so often produced that shivery reaction in Moira. “I only hope last night made you happy. That I didn't—”

“You didn't hurt me in the least.” She held his gaze and smiled. “Last night was a grand adventure I'll never forget.”

Adventure?
The irony of the word burned like a brand against his chest. Apparently she couldn't see past the adventurer he was, and didn't see their lovemaking as anything more than a daring exploit.

Her fingers tightened around his hand. “You will always have a special place in my heart, Graham Foster. But you and I are so very different. You are an explorer, and I am a homebody. You have obligations in distant lands, and I am bound here. You are reckless and daring and bold. I am cautious and practical.”

Well, he supposed he deserved to have his own life thrown back at him. “Moira—”

“Oh, but that doesn't mean I don't wish to see this adventure through.” She smiled and blinked several times. Good heavens, did he detect the glint of a tear? “I see no reason why we can't enjoy the rest of our time together.”

As if to make her meaning clear, she ran her hand along his sleeve, traced his shoulder, and brought it to rest just beneath his necktie. Her fingers inched between the buttons of his shirt.

Everything honorable in him shouted to end it there. If they had no future together, what business had they indulging in present pleasures? He was responsible for this; had flirted, coaxed and teased her into a seduction fueled by a very mutual attraction.

Ah, when she touched him like that…sensual and sweet, brazen and innocent… His chest flamed beneath her fingertips. He covered her hand, pressed it more firmly against him, and leaned down to kiss her. As their lips joined, he privately admitted his utter inability to end now what must end in time. Acknowledged his weakness where she was concerned. And banished, into the heat of their embrace, all thoughts of the future.

       17      

D
elightful shivers rippled through Moira as their tongues thrust and parried, as her fingertips forged heated paths inside Graham's shirt.

But a mutinous notion tainted her pleasure. What an accomplished liar she'd become, what a cool manipulator of the truth. Not that she hadn't spoken the truth. They
were
as contrary as two people could be. But that didn't make a blessed difference in how she felt.

She loved him. Loved and adored him. She wanted to stick her head out the window and shout it to the world. Wanted him to make love to her right there in the coach.

Wanted to tell him he must forsake his life's work and his oath to the people of Egypt and stay here with her. But…

Would he—could he—ever love her as much as he loved his adventurer's life?

I cannot stay
. He'd uttered those words right before he took her, before he had swept her to joyous heights. Heights that had, nonetheless, defined limits. He'd taken precautions. A sheath, he had called it. She had heard of such a thing before. French letters, as they were sometimes called, prevented the spreading of the French Pox. It also prevented children.