The King of Threadneedle Street (21 page)

Slowly she leaned in, and he met her halfway. For a moment they lingered with their lips parted, only an inch between them, leaving the choice for one of them to close the space. Alysia did it. Thinking of the way he moved his lips in speech, and also considering his reserved and steadfast nature, she kissed him gently, the way she guessed he would like it.

Alysia was unprepared for the entirely singular experience. He was tender and decorous. She recognized a hint of aggression; he seemed to confess that inside him was an ardent lover. And he was lonely. It sparked her empathy, and she wrapped her arms around his neck to delve deeper. The warm feeling he usually gave her spread into blissful contentment, like the sun on a summer afternoon or a full delicious meal.

She didn’t realize she had quit moving the way he liked and had reverted to her own combative, ill-behaved style until he pulled away, short of breath. He regarded her warily, but kept his hands on her waist. She had been too forward and probably unladylike. Her hands had strayed to his chest. Sheepishly she slid them back to his shoulders.

He gasped for breath. “Miss Villier! You mustn’t do that again if you expect me to behave myself.” His easy smile reassured her he wasn’t upset.

Embarrassed, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes with a heavy sigh. “I apologize, Philip. I am too forward, I know.”

He gathered her into a snug embrace. “No, not at all, darling. But I don’t think you understand your own power.” He lifted her chin and kissed her sweetly, his warm lips covering hers with soft, gentle strokes. “Tell me, how does this feel to you?”

“Warm. Comforting and pleasant, like the sun.”

He nodded, his eyes searching hers.

She knew what he meant to get at. “Tell me then, how often do you compare me to
her?
” He winced, and she added, “I ask only because I can’t seem to refrain from thinking of my own past, and I wondered if…”

“You feel different to me, but pleasing, in a foreign and wild sort of way. I like it, of course, but my mind isn’t clear, as you say.”

Alysia took his hand to try out the feel of his fingers laced between hers. A strong, muscled hand. Larger than she expected, and warm. “Who could fault you for that? You are far too young to have lost your wife, and it was not long ago.” His expression fell and he ducked his head. “Don’t be ashamed — I am not insulted. On the contrary, I understand completely.”

He didn’t meet her gaze, looking past her shoulder. “Since we are being candid, tell me if you can imagine yourself with me.”

“Yes. Absolutely. It is a pleasant thought, Philip.”

“But can you imagine us on our wedding night?”

Touché.
“I suppose not,” she admitted without looking at him. She had imagined Andrew that way, countless times. If she tried to insert Philip into the vision, it faded away and felt strange.

“What about being Lady Cavendish, a captain’s wife, and mother my children?”

“I cannot see it, not now.”

“I understand.” He raised their clasped hands to kiss the back of her wrist. “That doesn’t mean it won’t ever work, but I think you still love Andrew Tilmore. And apparently I am not so ready as I thought either.”

She resisted hitting his chest, as she usually did with Andrew when she felt frustrated. He always let her, but Philip would likely think her unruly. “I don’t want to miss the perfect opportunity because I am pining like an idiot over someone I can’t have.”

“If you truly want me, Alysia,” he used her given name for the first time, “I wouldn’t be so foolish as to turn you away. We understand each other, and I would be content to wait until we are both ready.” He kissed her lips gently, conjuring that lovely warm feeling again.

His gruff voice lowered in gentle tones was as soothing as his touch. “It wouldn’t be so bad, you know, and in time I believe we would be happy. I need a mother for my child, and I know you are in need of a protector. I would propose marriage right now if you desired it.”

He made perfect sense, and as a perfect gentleman, he left the choice in her hands. But his words made her identify the problem: It was so
logical
. Could they be satisfied forever with comfort and amicability? What about love and passion?

With Andrew, her heart sang, her skin tingled, and every moment he touched her she burned for more. It wasn’t merely pleasant, it was consuming. She couldn’t expect another man to love her with the heart-and-soul intensity Andrew did, but she would always make the comparison. A recipe for disappointment.

No, that was unfair to Philip. She hadn’t known him long. It also wasn’t fair to write him off as less passionate — since when was gentlemanly restraint a vice instead of a virtue?

“Philip. I want you to kiss me, the way you would if I were your wife. As though you were not concerned with behaving yourself.” She watched him decide, looking at her as though he imagined it.

She knew he would try it when his charming façade fell into a serious expression. He studied her slowly from her hair down past her waist then met her eyes again. He circled her ribs then slid his hands down onto her hips. He pulled her against him, and warmth melded into heat as he embraced her with his entire body.

His eyes flashed stormy gray, and his lips came down hard on hers. He was dominant and deliberate, his mouth showing her what he wanted; long, deep strokes in a rhythm he dictated. His lips felt as sensuous on hers as she thought they would be, and she was taken aback with his strength unleashed. Indeed, she had underestimated him: intrepid, skilled, and definitely passionate.

Her hands roamed onto his chest again and he allowed it. He was solid and broad, and she appreciated the secure feeling of being tucked protectively in his arms. But after a while she knew she didn’t like being led and dictated to. And although she could imagine this escalating into something gratifying, she was far from being consumed by it. She broke the kiss and watched for his reaction.

He surprised her by smiling again. “I gladly stand by my offer, Alysia, but don’t look so forlorn. I don’t feel it either.” He kissed her hand. “Take some time to think. There is no hurry.”

She knew what he meant by
not feeling it.
If she were truly in love, she would
feel it.
And since they both knew what it meant to love someone, they also knew when they did not.

“Meanwhile, I will watch over you.” He teased, “And only call you Alysia in private. I think I must, since I have kissed you.” He flashed his dashing dimpled smile again, and it was comfortable between them once more.

Her eyes flashed sideways to the cradle to be sure they hadn’t awakened the baby. Jacob was sound asleep.

“You would be a good mother and a lovely wife. I may kick myself in the morning for not pushing myself on you.”

“You are wise. If it is right, I think we will know it.” He was so endearing, she followed the impulse to lean into his chest again. “Meanwhile, I am honored if you will remain my friend.”

“First one more, for good measure.” He smiled and kissed her gently on the lips. “I have been wanting to try that with you for a long time. Very well, now we are only friends.”

She spoke her thoughts aloud before considering them, “Philip, I have an idea. Forgive me if I am too bold, but I must ask it anyway.” She kept his hand. “If you have any photographs or plates of her; even a good portrait or sketch would do…” She knew his wife’s name was Olivia, but she didn’t dare speak it aloud. He knew what she meant, judging by the clouded look in his eyes. “At any rate, I would love to paint the three of you as a family. If you would like it.”

He was silent for too long, and her heart sank. She had offended him. She looked down, wondering how to let him out of the situation gracefully. His finger raised her chin, and she saw his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

“Yes. I would like that very much, and thank you.” He kissed her sweetly on the forehead, and she let him hold her while he recovered himself. “I have a small piece here, but I will send for something better from home.”

She sighed in relief.

“Thank you,” he said again.

Chapter Fourteen

If this were play’d upon a stage now,
I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.

Twelfth Night
, William Shakespeare

Alysia smiled, she laughed, she played with babies, and taught lessons. When she couldn’t smile any longer, painting portraits served as an excuse to lose herself in a two-dimensional world of color and shadow. She found satisfaction by sheer force of will, even if her latest sketchbook was filled with abstract, macabre images made with violent, saturated strokes that scored the paper.

Her failure with Philip made her confront a long-suspected truth: Andrew had ruined her for any other man. Irrational to blame him, but her empty bed had seemed
wrong
ever since Paris. Without the rescue of distraction, the night stillness of her room seemed to leech her willpower; she felt herself turning into the melancholy, bitter spinster she dreaded.

In the foggy state between consciousness and slumber, she dwelt on the most meaningful moments she had shared with Andrew: Their first kiss evolving from a volatile argument. The way he always slid his fingers between hers, even before company, to declare he wasn’t ashamed of her. The first time he said aloud that he loved her and every time after that. The obsidian fire in his eyes as he pushed his way through the crowded ballroom in Paris to claim and rescue her. The sight of him lounging naked and aroused, challenging her with his bold stare as she captured him on paper.

This evening she had drifted to sleep amid a scattering of chocolate truffle wrappers, evidence of her dark mood. Not only had she dreamt of Andrew, but she imagined his warm, heavy arms around her. Leather-ink-balsam scent on his skin. His humming in her ear while he played with her hair. He made her so warm she felt as though wrapped in a wool blanket, lying in a patch of sunlight.

She imagined his chest pressed against her back.
You like this, Lisa?
He brushed a hand down her side then kneaded and squeezed his way back up. She leaned into his hand, making an embarrassing moaning sound. She imagined his breath on her neck, a dark chuckle and his chocolate-liqueur voice,
Yes, my love. I want you too. Shall I wake you?

No,
she groused then sighed as he stroked across her ribs, heating the fabric.
Yes,
she amended to the Andrew in her dream.

He found a particularly erotic spot inside the curve of her hip, coaxing lazy moans from her throat. As always, he knew just how to work over her neck, first with feathery kisses then deep, hungry nips and tugs that shot lightning down her spine and made her toes curl.

Who does this to you, in your dreams?
he demanded.

She drifted into a state straddling sleep and drowsy awareness, not unlike rising to the surface of water. Her mind tumbled into a disoriented mess. Feeling the delicious dream slipping away, she worked to hold it in her mind. She would compose the rest of the scene for herself if she could no longer dream it unrehearsed.

She reveled in his lips tracing her jaw and kissing the corner of her mouth. He leaned over her side and gathered her close, enveloping her in a domineering embrace. Underneath his patient, deliberate kisses came a hint of wildness and near-desperation. She sensed it in his heavy breath, the slight trembling of his hands, and his pulse pounding in his throat.

Groggily she registered the touch of his tongue on her neck and the rasp of his evening whiskers. His scent had altered; she noticed hints of kerosene, roast beef, and starch.

Lisa?
Who makes love to you in your dreams?
He raked his fingers down the silk of her nightgown. She whimpered in protest of his rough treatment; then his thumbs rubbed soothing circles. His voice dipped low.
Tell me who.

Fighting the floating sensation of waking, she clung to the dream, even though she didn’t care for this agitated version of Andrew.

Is it Philip Cavendish?
He tormented her with his hands, while his lips nipped the tender place between her earlobe and the corner of her jaw that both tingled and thrilled at the touch of his lips.

“I wish,” she sighed in answer then felt Andrew tense. His hands stilled. Did he growl? “I wish I wanted Philip, but he doesn’t make me feel this way,” she explained in a groggy murmur that sounded barely coherent to herself.

“No?”

“I am cursed, Drew,” she moaned. “I want only the man I can’t have.” Her words were sleepy and muted to a mumble.

He ran his hands down her body again. “You have me now.”

She reached for his arms and found them bare, and recognized the heated, luxurious feel of his skin against her back. Her fingers teased the hair dusting his forearms and traced the dramatic curves of muscle along his upper arms.

“Hmm,” she responded, stretching her spine and nestling against him. “This is a good dream.”

When she woke to a lonely bed, she didn’t want to admit to being disappointed. Even in the reality of the morning light, the dream still seemed tactile; his lips on her neck, his voice in her ear. She pressed her face to the spot where she imagined he had lain and inhaled the tangible scent, ignoring the truth — hallucinations were not the product of a whole and well mind.

She half expected to find traces of pink marks on her neck as Andrew sometimes left from his rough kisses. It was uncouth, but she had always taken a sort of secret satisfaction in it. Alysia stared at her unmarked neck in the mirror as she dressed in a hurry, trying to come to terms with the reality that Andrew was lost to her. Again. When would she learn?

She avoided breakfast with the family. It wasn’t logical, but she couldn’t face them. She also didn’t want to share the morning with anyone, preferring to bask in the glow of her memories. Feeling maudlin and aimless, she retreated to the library to sketch while waiting for Madeline and Christian.