Red Roses Mean Love (17 page)

Hayley eyed the amber liquid dubiously. Captain Haydon Mills often partook of brandy, and Hayley decided that if she wrote about it, she should at least taste it. For literary purposes, of course.

Drawing a resolute breath, she said, "As Winston would say, 'Down the hatch!'" She tossed the entire drink back with one gulp. The potent liquor burned a fiery path down her throat, leaving her gasping. Tears puddled in her eyes.

"Dear heavens!" she gasped.

Stephen rose and pulled her to her feet. Stepping behind her, he clapped her on the back until the coughing stopped.

"Are you all right?" he asked when she could finally breathe again.

Hayley nodded weakly. "Yes, I'm fine now." She fixed him and his as yet untouched brandy snifter with a baleful glare. "How can you possibly drink that vile stuff? It's awful."

He choked back a laugh. "You're supposed to sip it slowly. Not gulp it down."

"Now you tell me." She shot him a sheepish smile, which faded as a spell of dizziness washed over her. "Oh dear. I feel rather unsettled."

Stephen took her by the arm and led her to a long brocade sofa near the fireplace. "Sit down," he said, helping her then settling himself next to her. "Is that better?"

Hayley nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry. I just felt so odd for a moment." She leaned back and closed her eyes. A wave of hot dizziness washed over her, leaving a strange, liquid languor in its wake. "Oh my."

Stephen studied her, his gaze wandering slowly down her face, taking in the delicate curve of her cheek, the soft plumpness of her lips, the graceful bend of her long neck. "That was a hefty drink you belted back. And the fact that you barely touched your dinner is not going to help."

A puzzled frown formed between her brows. "How do you know I didn't eat my dinner?"

I couldn't keep my eyes off you.
His gaze continued downward and settled on her gown. Instead of answering her question, he asked, "Is brown your favorite color?"

Her eyes popped open. "I beg your pardon?"

"All your gowns are brown. Is it a favorite of yours?"

Her eyes drifted shut again. "Not particularly. Brown is convenient because it doesn't show dirt."

"Don't you own any gowns in other colors?" Stephen asked, wondering what she would look like in an aqua gown the same color as her eyes.

"Of course. I have two gray gowns."

Two gray gowns.
His heart pinched at her words. She said them without any signs of embarrassment. He'd never met anyone so without vanity. To stifle the need to touch her he forcibly cupped his palms around his brandy snifter.

"Pamela has gowns in different colors," he pointed out.

"Yes. Are they not lovely?" A tender smile lit her face. "Pamela is at an age where gentlemen are starting to notice her, and one gentleman in particular. It's important she look nice. I shall advise her to wear her new pale green gown to Lorelei Smythe's party next week." She opened her eyes and smiled dreamily at Stephen. "Pamela looks lovely in pale green."

Unable to stop himself, Stephen reached out and gently touched her flushed cheek. "And will you wear pale green as well?"

She laughed and shook her head. "No. I shall wear one of my gray gowns." As she continued to look at him, her smile faded. Struggling to sit up, she said, "You're frowning. Are you upset?"

His gaze wandered over her face. "No. I was just thinking how lovely you would look in pale green. Or pale aqua. To match your eyes."

An undignified giggle escaped her followed by an unladylike hiccup. "Oh dear. What on earth is in that brandy?" She pressed her fingertips to her temples. "Now what were we saying? Oh yes. Gowns. Thank you for your kind words, but it would take more than a gown in any pale color to make me lovely."

Setting his untouched drink on a small mahogany table, he cradled her face between his palms. "On the contrary," he said softly, his thumbs gently caressing her cheeks, "I cannot think of anything that could in any way detract from your beauty, including gray or brown gowns."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, and he easily read the confusion in her gaze.

"It isn't necessary for you to say pretty things to me, Stephen."

Her words pinched his heart. She was so lovely. Inside and out. "You're beautiful, Hayley. Absolutely beautiful."

Color suffused her face, and a shy smile touched her lips.

"Has no one ever told you that?" he asked.

Her blush heightened. "Only Mama and Papa. Never a man."

"Not even Poppledink?"

"Popplemore. And no."

"The man's an idiot."

Another hiccup and giggle escaped her. "Actually, he's a poet."

"A
poet?
And he never told you you're beautiful?"

"No. He apparently turned to poetry
after
he broke our engagement." She leaned forward and confided, "Clearly I wasn't the sort of woman to awaken his poetic soul."

In spite of her casual attitude, Stephen was certain he detected an underlying hurt behind her words, a hurt he felt compelled to banish. "You could inspire any man to poetry."

"Indeed?" Amusement sparkled in her eyes. "Even you?"

"Even me."

"I don't believe you."

"I'd be happy to prove it
…
but it will cost you your wager."

"You mean I wouldn't be able to make you weed the garden?"

"Precisely."

She tapped her chin with her finger and considered. "Very well. I choose the poem." Cocking a teasing brow at him, she added. "This will give me a chance to test your tutor skills and see how clever you are with words." She made a big show of arranging herself comfortably, noisily settling her skirts around her. "I am ready. Recite away."

His gaze roamed over her face, resting for a long moment on her mouth before again meeting her eyes.

"She's like a breath of sunshine;

warm, enticing, yet impossible to define.

There's something soft and tender in her eye

 
that I cannot fail to recognize.

She's miles away from typical,

yet I find her irresistible…

so much that I must bestow

a kiss upon beautiful Hayley, from the hay meadow."

He gently brushed his mouth over hers then leaned back. She stared at him, clearly bemused.

"Well?" he asked. "Did I pass the test?"

"Test?"

"Of my tutor skills." He reached out and ran his finger down her smooth cheek.

She stilled. "You touched me."

"Yes."

"But I thought you didn't like it."

He couldn't stop staring at her. "I like it, Hayley. Very much." His eyes rested on a shiny curl that had slipped from her prim chignon. Instead of inspiring propriety, all he could think of was pulling the pins from her silky tresses and watching them cascade down her back. The need to kiss her again overwhelmed his senses, flooding them. This woman touched something deep inside him—some part of him he hadn't even known existed until he met her.

"Thank you for the poem. It was lovely."

Her soft voice brushed by his ear and his weak defenses crumbled. Pushing his common sense firmly aside, he gave in to his pent-up longing. He plunged his fingers into her hair and buried his lips in hers, his tongue seeking entrance to her mouth.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and parted her
lips, welcoming the thrust of his tongue, returning his kiss with an abandon that fueled the fire burning inside him. He slanted his mouth over hers again and again, each kiss growing in length and intensity until he felt he'd burst. Without lifting his mouth from hers, he hauled her onto his lap, settling her between his thighs. He stifled a groan when she
shifted
her bottom, unknowingly pressing herself against his straining arousal.

I have to stop. Stop kissing her. Touching her.
But even as
the thought entered his mind, he caressed the warm, full roundness of her
breast. Her nipple beaded against his palm,
and the war with his conscience was lost. With a heartfelt groan, he pressed her back against the sofa cushions, following her down, his body half covering hers.

He tunneled his fingers through her soft hair, then ran his hands down her sides and back up to cup her breasts, reshaping them to fit his palms.
Completely lost in the exquisite feel of her, the rose-scented fragrance of her, his lips traveled down her neck and lower, kissing her breasts through the soft material of her gown.

He raised his head. "Open your eyes, Hayley."

She dragged her eyelids open and the desire glowing in
her aqua depths tightened his insides to a pulsing ache. He turned his face into her palm and pressed a heated kiss there.
She shifted her lower body, forcing a groan from him when
her thigh pressed against his arousal. Staring down into her luminous eyes, soft with wanting,
slumberous with desire,
he gritted his
teeth against the waves of lust washing over him. He wanted to do a hell of a lot more than kiss her.

She was all warm, pliant, wanting female, and he was definitely all aching, throbbing, lusting male. The need to raise her skirts and plunge into her velvety warmth all but
strangled him.
She's mine for the taking. In less than ten seconds I could be inside her, easing this ceaseless, relentless ache.

But he couldn't do it. She was a virgin, and no doubt muzzy from that hefty shot of brandy. And she deserved a hell of a lot more than a quick tumble with a man who wasn't going to stay with her. A man who'd repaid her kind
ness with harsh criticism and lies.

But, damn it, she was like no virgin he'd ever met. He avoided innocents like a bad rash. They were silly, insipid,
dull, and normally accompanied by a marriage-minded mother. Hayley challenged him, provoked him, confused and fascinated him. And worst of all, aroused him to the point of pain.

Where he found the strength to move away from her, he didn't know, but muttering an oath of self-disgust, he pushed himself off her and sat up.
Bloody hell! Bloody goddamn hell!

Dropping his head into his hands, he closed his eyes and tried to calm his tattered nerves. He had to get away from this woman. She somehow managed to rob him of all his wits. He ached for her. His body screamed out for her touch. She was driving him absolutely out of his mind.
I never should have started this. I should have let her remain upset with me.
But he'd selfishly wanted to see that teasing warmth in her eyes again.

She sat up and laid her hand on his arm. "Oh
…
my head," she groaned. "It's throbbing so."

I know all about throbbing, believe me.
Praying for strength, he arose. "Let's get you upstairs," he said, his voice terse. He grabbed her under her arms, pulled her to her feet, and all but dragged her across the room.

"Wait!" she gasped. "I feel dizzy."

Stephen didn't wait. He didn't
dare.
Holding her firmly
under one arm, he half walked, half dragged her up the
stairs. He didn't stop until they reached her bedchamber. Opening the door, he
gently shoved her inside, then closed the door with a resolute click.

* * *

Entering his own
bedchamber, Stephen restlessly paced the
length of the room, dragging his fingers through his hair again and again until the dark strands stood on end. He desperately tried not to think of Hayley. Hayley warm and giving, reaching her arms up to him, her eyes heavy with want.

He could think of nothing else.

He could have had her.

If his bloody conscience hadn't intervened, he could, this very minute, be buried deep between her soft thighs, touching her rose-scented skin, kissing her lips, relieving the tight ache in his groin.

When the hell did I develop a conscience anyway? And what a bloody inconvenient time for it to come alive.
Sinking down in a wing chair, he stared broodingly into the fire until the embers barely glowed. After an hour of soul-searching, he was only able to determine two things.

One, no matter how he tried to deny it, and no matter how hard he tried to talk himself out of it, he wanted Hayley Albright with an intensity that shocked him. She affected him as no woman ever had before.

And two, the only reason he wasn't with her right now, buried deep inside her, was because he cared about her too much to take her innocence and leave her with nothing when he departed.

He squeezed his eyes shut
and shook his head.

God damn it. He cared. He didn't want to, but he did.

He wished he didn't desire her to the point of distraction, but he did.