Red Roses Mean Love (13 page)

"He certainly taught you how to kiss."
The bastard.
His frown tightened into a glowering scowl and hot anger pumped through him. Had the bastard taught her anything else?

Her eyes widened. "Oh, but Jeremy didn't
…
I mean, he never. We never…
"

"Never what?"

"Jeremy never kissed me as you just did," she blurted out.

The violent urge to smash Jeremy Pop-whatever's face lessened considerably. "No?"

"No. You're the only one who
…
"
She dropped her chin.

Compassion tightened his chest as he thought of her sweetly offering her heart to a callous fool, who refused her because she was too kind and loving to abandon her young siblings to the care of a dotty aunt.

He was just about to tell her that Jeremy Popincart was a fool when she gasped.

"Heavens! My shirt!" Turning her back on him, she immediately set about adjusting her clothes. "Dear God, what you must think of me."

I think you're wonderful.
The thought sprang unbidden into Stephen's mind, catching him off guard. He'd never thought such a thing about any woman. Wonderful? Damn it, he must be losing his mind.

When she turned around, Stephen stifled a groan. She'd fastened her shirt incorrectly, and her hair lay about her shoulders in wild disarray. The urge to kiss her again slammed into his midsection, rendering him speechless.

"I must go," she said, her voice sounding one step from panic. "Good night." She ran down the path as if the devil himself pursued her.

Stephen expelled a pent-up breath. Her scent still surrounded him. He could still feel the imprint of her body on his.

Damn.

He'd gone out in the garden to relieve his troubled mind. Now his mind was more troubled than ever, and on top of that his body ached with relentless need.
What the hell was I thinking?

But he knew what he was thinking.

And now that he'd tasted her, touched her, he didn't know how to stop thinking about it.

As far as he was concerned, resting and relaxing in the countryside was highly overrated.

In fact, all this relaxation would probably kill him.

Chapter 10

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K
nowing sleep was out of the question after his interlude in the garden with Hayley, Stephen walked slowly back to the house and entered the library. He lit a lamp then headed directly for the brandy decanters where he tossed back two drinks in quick succession.

The potent liquor stole through his veins, relaxing him somewhat. Relieved, he poured another generous drink and flopped down in one of the wing chairs near the fire.
What the hell am I doing?

He took another sip of the brandy and realized with no small amount of chagrin that his hands were not quite steady. He felt hot, bothered, and damned uncomfortable in his tight breeches.

He'd known kissing Hayley was a mistake, but for some unfathomable reason he had been unable to stop himself. There was something about her—something he could not define—that attracted him like a moth to a flame. Bloody hell, the woman left him shaking.

He sipped his brandy, trying to banish the memory of her in his arms. He failed miserably. She was soft. So incredibly soft and responsive. He could almost hear her sighing his name, her eyes darkening with budding passion.

With a groan, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, allowing the memory of their kiss to wash over him. He had never kissed such a tall woman before, and he had to admit that it was a unique experience. All her curves fit his frame like perfectly formed puzzle pieces. If she had not left the garden, God knows what would have happened between them.

She excited him more than any other woman he had ever known. When she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him, she had nearly brought him to his knees.

Where he had found the strength to refrain from stripping her bare and burying himself in her warmth, he would never know. He knew many men who were ruled by their passions and made unwise decisions based on their physical needs rather than their brains. Stephen normally didn't suffer from that problem, but kissing Hayley was a decision that definitely had
physical needs
written all over it.

Even though his head told him not to kiss her, even though logic screamed it was an unwise decision, he hadn't heeded his own better judgment.
And now look at me.
Drinking
brandy in the middle of the night,
still
uncomfortably aroused, and unable to sleep. And all because of an on-the-shelf spinster.
If the members of his club could see him like this—all but mooning over an innocent country chit—they would laugh their collective asses off.

But she's not just an on-the-shelf country chit,
his inner voice interrupted.
Except for
Victoria
she's the only truly good person you have ever met. She shares herself with everyone—her family, friends, even strangers—yet asks nothing in return. What the hell sort of person is that?

An angel.

But look at all her flaws.
Her behavior, her clothing, her family, would cause Society matrons to dash for their hartshorn. Still, she somehow struck a chord deep inside him. And damn it, he didn't like it. Yet it also bothered him to no end that she'd been upset when she left him.

Frustrated, Stephen tossed down the remainder of his drink and stood. He paced back and forth. He had to face the facts. The only reason he was staying at Albright Cottage was because someone was trying to kill him. He was going home to
London
in a few weeks time and would undoubtedly never see Hayley again. His time in the country should be spent thinking of ways to capture his killer, not kissing in the garden. But he seemed to be having a difficult time remembering why he was here. He had no business starting any sort of dalliance with her. Perhaps if she were more experienced and could play sexual games by his rules, he would consider passing his enforced time in Halstead in her arms.

But he had no desire to seduce a virginal spinster. Stephen paused in his pacing and looked down at his still unrelaxed arousal and quirked his mouth in a rueful half-grin.

All right, so he had the
desire
to seduce her. But he would not. His life was in
London
and there was no place in his world for Miss Hayley Albright and her brood of noisy siblings. He was simply going to have to stay away from her as much as possible and control himself when he was near her. No more kissing. Absolutely not. Never again. He'd allowed things to get out of hand this evening—a mistake he couldn't afford to repeat. He nodded to himself decisively and headed back to his bedchamber.

Surely he'd have no trouble keeping his passions in check for the next several weeks. Then once he was back in
London
he would bury himself in his mistress's willing arms and forget all about this insane desire for a simple country girl.

Yes indeed. Once I slake my passions with my mistress, all thoughts of Hayley will vanish completely.

His inner voice said
not bloody likely,
but he managed, with a great deal of effort, to ignore it.

* * *

Hayley lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, reliving the past hour—the most wonderful and most mortifying hour of her life. Her emotions swayed from euphoria to shame, then back again.

A shiver passed through her as she recalled the sensation of Stephen's mouth, the warmth of his body, the spicy, woodsy-clean fragrance that belonged to him alone. Heat flooded her veins, pooling in her lower belly. After living six and twenty years without having the vaguest notion of what desire felt like, Stephen had shown her in a matter of minutes.

This aching, sweet, warmth
…
this heart-pounding, tingling sensation that invaded all one's senses
…
this
was desire. She raised her fingertips to her swollen lips and touched them.

But heaven above, what he must think of her! Her cheeks flamed, recalling her wanton reaction to his kiss, to his caress, but he'd simply overwhelmed her senses. She couldn't have stopped her uninhibited response any more than she could pull the moon from the sky.

Jeremy Popplemore had certainly never made her feel this way—all liquid and weak-limbed. In fact, what she felt for Stephen made her youthful feelings for Jeremy pale to nothingness.

As the significance of that thought settled on Hayley, her heart skipped a beat. Sitting bolt upright in bed, she pressed her palms to her hot cheeks, half in awestruck discovery, half
in
dismay.

She was falling in love with Stephen Barrettson.

Falling in love. Dear God. Was that possible?

She flopped back down and forced herself to take deep, calming breaths. She'd long ago given up on ever finding a man to love and share her life with. She had managed to cope after Jeremy cried off, and in retrospect she could not really blame him for not wanting to take on the entire Albright brood. The responsibility, as she well knew, was daunting.

So she had gone on, devoting herself to her family, her days occupied with running Albright Manor and educating the children. None of the gentlemen in the village struck her fancy, and she knew she was too tall, too average-looking, and too unconventional to attract their attention anyway. Left with little choice, she'd pushed all thoughts of romance and love aside.

Until Stephen Barrettson entered her life.

The man had not been out of her thoughts for a moment since she brought him home. Even while he lay prostrate on the bed, racked with fever, close to death, Hayley had felt
something—
an
indescribable, inexplicable bond with him.

When he finally awoke and she had looked into his dark green eyes for the first time, her heart had turned over. Now, after spending the last several days with him, her feelings were growing stronger. Aside from the fact that Stephen was the most physically beautiful man she had ever seen, he also fascinated her.

That he had no family wrenched her heart. Yes, Stephen possessed an air of sadness, an inner vulnerability that beckoned her like nectar attracts bees. She longed to banish the uneasy shadows lurking in his eyes.

She noticed how he sometimes froze when she touched him, as if caring, friendly touches were foreign to him. He reminded her of the cat with the broken leg she had found as a child. Her heart had gone out to the poor suffering creature. She'd brought the cat into the barn, set its leg, and named her Petunia. She'd cared for Petunia, loving the furry beast, feeding it, and pouring all her heart, soul, and compassion into the task. Petunia, alone and friendless in the world, reveled in the attention. Even though the cat did occasionally spit and claw at her, Hayley never lost patience with the creature and soon they were inseparable friends. Petunia died when Hayley was sixteen, and she had cried for days.

Stephen reminded her of that cat—injured and desperately in need of love and compassion, even if he didn't realize
it.

Perhaps I can heal him on the inside as well as the outside. Perhaps no one has ever really been kind to him, or loved him.
Her mind raced ahead. Maybe if she showed Stephen what a loving family was, perhaps he might want to stay in Halstead.

Perhaps he'll come to care for me as I care for him.

Hayley knew that if he didn't, if he left in two weeks as he was planning, her heart would break. What were the chances that he might fall in love with her and want to remain? Hayley shook her head. One man had already walked away from her because of the responsibilities she carried. Nothing had changed—she still would never consider abandoning her family.

Then there was the matter of her secret employment. How could she possibly consider a romantic involvement under those circumstances? And besides, she had no illusions regarding her feminine appeal. It was completely absent.

Don't forget how he kissed you,
her inner voice interrupted. That kiss. How could she possibly forget it? And Stephen had certainly seemed to enjoy it. Perhaps she wasn't
       
quite as unattractive as she thought? Hayley dismissed that notion with an impatient shake of her head. No, feminine allure was definitely not her strong suit.

Might Stephen grow to care for her?

Hayley shook her head. The odds were not in her favor.

But whatever the odds, might it not be worth the risk?