Clandestine (20 page)

For now.

He rubbed his thumbs along her palms, appreciating the slide of her smooth skin against his.

Some distant part of his brain screamed at him. Insisting that the heart-racing heat he felt in simply
touching
her hands was more than mere polite friendship.

Lifting his eyes back to hers, Marc deliberately engulfed her hands, holding her gaze as he continued to rub warmth into her fingers.

He raised her hands and blew on the backs of them. And then quite deliberately, turned over her right hand and planted a kiss into her palm.

A very
good
kiss, he might add. The kind that sent an electrical sizzle up a woman’s arm.

Kit gasped and instantly curled her hand around the kiss, sealing it in. She pulled her hands out of his grasp and back into her lap, clasping them together. Hard. As if she wanted to protect the kiss emblazoned on her palm.

Or possibly prevent him from duplicating the gesture.

It could go either way.

“I like your hands.” The words popped out.

“Thank you.” She swallowed and turned said hands over in her lap. “They are a little large. To match the rest of me.”

She said it matter-of-factly. But he had to wonder if this wasn’t a chink in Kit’s confidence armor. Was anyone really as confident as they seemed on the outside?

He couldn’t stop his curiosity. Had all that confidence been forged as a defense? Was confidence her version of deflection? Forcing hurts and pains to seemingly bounce off of her?

Part of Marc (the part he currently refused to listen to) howled at the thought that this amazing woman would ever, for even a moment, doubt her amazing-ness.

Something panged in his chest, kicking powerfully against the blocks he had built around his feelings for her. He shook his head and reached for her hands again.

“No. They are perfect.” He massaged her knuckles, breathing on them anew. “All of you is perfect.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So your lordship likes a proper armful? Not the petite, slender misses one sees in London?”

He grinned. “I like a
woman
, Miss Ashton. And when I embrace a woman, I like to feel I am holding something soft and curved and decidedly female. Otherwise, what is the point?”

Kit gave him a skeptical, I-suppose-I-can-humor-you look. “I think a good many men would disagree. I have listened to their talk enough to know. I am far too tall and—”

“No, there you are wrong. A man wants a woman to be distinctly unlike himself. Women obsess over the smallest things. Are my hips too big? Are my eyes too small? They don’t realize it is the
entirety
of a woman which draws a man in. That every little quirk simply becomes part of what makes a woman uniquely special.”

Kit stared at him with her enormous honey eyes. Faintly amused but clearly unbelieving.

He
hated
seeing doubt in her eyes. Particularly when it was directed at herself.

That something underneath his sternum thumped again, spreading a painful ache across his chest, tightening his breathing.

He could not stand another moment of her self-doubt. Someday he would ferret out its source, but for now, he merely wanted to combat it. Like a vicious weed that needed to be stamped out.

Without thinking, he stood and locked eyes with her, drowning in their chocolate depths. With a gentle squeeze of her hand, he oh-so-slowly pulled Kit to her feet.

And then, again . . . slow, slow, slowly tugged her toward him. Until her skirts swished around his boots and he could feel the warm puff of her breath against his chin. Her height allowing him to look her straight in the eye.

Carefully, respectfully, he wrapped his hands under her cloak and around her waist, drawing her into his arms. Gently, as if she were a treasure. Something precious to be cherished.

He felt the initial surprise in her body, and then she melted into him, her ice cold hands pressed against his chest between them.

She
was
a delightful armful. Lush and curved, her waist narrower than he had supposed. She smelled faintly of lavender and clean soap.

Why hadn’t he thought to hold her before now?

“See,” he murmured into her hair, “I was right. Look how perfectly you fit.”

The truth of his own words hit hard. She
did
fit perfectly against him.

She gave a muffled laugh that sounded as rattled as he felt.

“You only say that because we’re both so cold,” she sighed, pressing her frozen nose into the crook of his neck. And then snuggled in even closer, burrowing her ice-cube fingers under his coat and wrapping them around his back. They burned through his waistcoat.

His arms tightened around her. How had he ended up in the deep end so fast?

Why, why, why was he doing this to himself?

Kit was a nineteenth century woman . . . no, lady. A nineteenth century
lady
. And as such, she was used to a life and set of rules he would never understand. Surely, he had broken at least a couple dozen of those rules in the last fifteen minutes alone.

Not that he claimed to be a gentleman, despite all of Michel’s coaching.

But, man, it felt good and just plain
right
to have her in his arms. Like every other woman had been the wrong fit. Like he had been born to hold her and only her.

It was a terrifyingly disturbing thought. Because it made him want to hold her more. To keep her permanently, which was an impossibility.

Fate had sent him into the past. There was a blackmailer on the loose who needed to be stopped. He had assumed
that
was his mission. But Kit was now wrapped up in the mess too.

Were
they fated for each other like James and Emme or Georgiana and Sebastian? He had rejected the idea just a few minutes ago . . . but now.

The thought thrilled and terrified.

Marc gathered Kit even closer to him, burying his nose in her hair. Inhaling deeply.

Kit’s hands moved across his back, pressing through his waistcoat. And then she pulled away just enough to move her hands around to his chest, still pressing. She had a faint frown on her face. Marc forced himself not to study the slight pout of her lips.

That path led to danger and deep waters.

Instead, he lifted a questioning eyebrow.

“Are you muscled everywhere?” she finally asked, feeling the ripples of his stomach. “It’s like you’re one solid muscle.”

He shrugged. It was a by-product of all his muay thai training.

She squeezed one of his biceps. He flexed for her.

Her eyes widened.

“I take it you approve, Miss Ashton?” he asked.

She nodded carefully and then took a cautious step back from him. Swallowed.

“I promise my muscles don’t bite.”

That got a quiet laugh from her.

“I am not entirely sure of that.”

A small pause.

“Thank you,” she said softly, eyes calm and sincere.

Marc instantly understood what she meant.

Thank you for making me feel beautiful. For shoring up my wavering confidence.

“You are welcome,” he replied just as gravely.

She studied his face, eyes unreadable. “Nothing can ever come of this . . . of us. You know that, right?”

He nodded. “I know.”

“It’s not that I don’t like you.”

“I know. I don’t . . . not like you . . . too.”

They gazed at each other in silence.

She smiled—a weak, weary thing. “Friends, then?” She extended her hand to him.

He wrapped her cold hand in his. “Friends.”

And then he tugged on her hand, pulling her back into him, murmuring into her hair, “And as your friend, I can’t let you return back to Haldon Manor until you have warmed up a bit.”

Her body vibrated with laughter, and she melted against him.

Nothing could come of it—her words echoing through the aching pang in his chest.

Nothing.

Chapter 12

The drawing room

Kinningsley, home of Viscount Linwood

February 28, 1814

L
ord Linwood, thank you again for arranging this delightful party. Your estate is enchanting,” Lady Ruby said as she entered the drawing room, the purple satin of her evening gown rustling.

Following right behind, Kit watched Linwood bow politely over Ruby’s knuckles. As usual, the viscount was immaculately turned out, this time in a black coat and subtly striped scarlet-red waistcoat. Both fitted to his frame as only the most exclusive London tailor could manage. Weston, perhaps?

Kit looked past Linwood, scanning the room for Marc, noting he wasn’t there.

Not yet, at least.

Her talk with Marc in the church earlier in the week had shifted their relationship—solidifying their friendship but adding a robust layer of angst.

She could still vividly recall the feel of his arms around her, the potent breadth of his body. She had wanted to sink into his strength, to rely on someone as she hadn’t in a
very
long while. Cry out a lifetime of trouble and sorrow on his solid chest.

He was just so very . . . male. That sense of something wild and elemental within him. Untamed. The opposite of everything she had ever thought she would want in a man.

But she knew why.

He accepted himself the way he was. And, as a consequence, made
her
feel accepted just as she was. No need to change a thing.

It was odd, actually. All her life she had been feted and sought out because of
who
she was. Most people never bothered to see past her social station, family connections and clever wit to appreciate her for herself.

But here, stripped of everything she had ever been, she had only herself to recommend her. And how thrilling to realize she was enough. That someone
could
accept her.

Her throat tightened painfully when she thought about it too much. They had no promise of a future together. No matter what her treacherous heart (and shoulder angels) wanted.

For just a moment, Kit imagined dragging Marc home with her. How all her friends would squeal over an adventurer-turned-spy in tight breeches. A man who spent his time sailing the world on a clipper ship, sails snapping—sword in one hand, pistol in the other. Not that she had seen Marc brandish either weapon, but she was quite sure he would be proficient with both.

A romantic untamed rogue straight from the pages of some sappy novel.

Yes, her friends would all collectively swoon and then read her the Riot Act, listing the many, many ways in which being emotionally involved with Marc was a very, very bad idea.

And they would be right. At least on paper. Curse them.

“Miss Ashton, my shawl, if you please.” Lady Ruby walked slowly toward the roaring fire and the settee in front of it, gesturing toward the purple shawl which Kit held over one arm. Startled out of her reverie, Kit instantly crossed the opulent drawing room to her employer.

Linwood had invited everyone from Haldon Manor to Kinningsley for a brief country party. A much newer building than Haldon Manor, Kinningsley had been completed just thirty years prior by the current Lord Linwood’s grandfather. With its profusion of marble, fluted columns and soaring ceilings painted with cherubs and country scenes, the entire house was an homage to classical Greek and Roman aesthetics.

Rumors among the servants had it that Marianne had pleaded with her brother to give her some respite from the constant drain of entertaining Lady Ruby and Jedediah. Though no one doubted Marianne found Lady Ruby and Jedediah tedious company, it was hard to believe Lord Linwood would arrange a party strictly for his sister’s comfort.

But arrange the party Linwood had, inviting everyone to quit Haldon Manor and join him for several days at his estate. As Lady Ruby’s companion, Kit had been allowed to come.

Kit had driven herself and Fanny the few miles to Linwood’s estate in Arthur’s gig. There was no room for them in the family coach, particularly as Marianne insisted tiny Isabel accompany them, stating over and over how besotted her brother was with his baby niece. Kit kept her opinions about
that
to herself.

Despite everything, the invitation had cheered Kit immensely. Which was truly pathetic, when she thought about it too much. It was more than just a change of scenery (though that too was decidedly welcome). Kinningsley afforded her a different landscape to look for Daniel.

The past few days of searching had proved futile. Marc kept a low profile but frequently rode into Marfield to snoop about. He updated her each day about what steps had been taken and what their next step would be.

Daniel had disappeared, as usual.

Though lovely to have help, she was still nervous about Daniel and Marc meeting. Who knew what Daniel would say?

Certain undisclosed aspects of her family needed to stay just that—undisclosed. Would he understand the danger in telling Marc too much?

Kit settled Lady Ruby onto the settee in front of the fireplace near the vicar and his wife, arranging Ruby’s purple cashmere shawl precisely as she liked it (two pleated folds, draped on the shoulders so the shawl hung at precisely the same length on each side).